


Two Sides of the Coin

by Syllis



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Shadowrun Fusion, Alternate Universe -- NOT a fucking coffeehouse, Anal Sex, Captivity, College of Winterhold - Freeform, Fluff, Frottage, It's always Marcus - Freeform, Lima Syndrome, M/M, Purgative- Intestinal Distress, Stockholm Syndrome, Tentacle Monsters, Waffle House
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-07-29 09:56:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 62,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20080297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syllis/pseuds/Syllis
Summary: Many thanks toBookscorpionfor much help with the world of Shadowrun and of course for letting me borrow the redoubtable Duncan and the long-suffering Rhys! Those poor guys, having to put up with Marcus. And they're much nicer than Marcus gives them credit for! You should go visit their stories, which start withOut of the ShadowsThis work started off as a series of prompts fromArtemisMoonsong'sRomance Week. Wait, it's no longer June? Better late than not-ever.After that it took an extended jaunt into dystopia, just for fun. I didn't have room in the main story to explain Marcus and Arch-Mage Savos Aren, so I thought this might serve.This work is set in time in the late spring of 4e203, not too long before Marcus' stunning debut at the Thalmor Embassy party. (Someday, someday I will get to that.)





	1. Only One Bed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookscorpion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookscorpion/gifts).

> Many thanks to [Bookscorpion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookscorpion/pseuds/bookscorpion) for much help with the world of Shadowrun and of course for letting me borrow the redoubtable Duncan and the long-suffering Rhys! Those poor guys, having to put up with Marcus. And they're much nicer than Marcus gives them credit for! You should go visit their stories, which start with [Out of the Shadows](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15735564/chapters/36870696)
> 
> This work started off as a series of prompts from [ArtemisMoonsong's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtemisMoonsong/pseuds/ArtemisMoonsong) Romance Week. Wait, it's no longer June? Better late than not-ever.
> 
> After that it took an extended jaunt into dystopia, just for fun. I didn't have room in the main story to explain Marcus and Arch-Mage Savos Aren, so I thought this might serve.
> 
> This work is set in time in the late spring of 4e203, not too long before Marcus' stunning debut at the Thalmor Embassy party. (Someday, someday I will get to that.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Failure to escape the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold's bed is punished by...
> 
> Cuddles!

Marcus thrashed about and whined, pretending to fight nightmare. He pulled on the sheet, hard, and thrust his heel back viciously until he made contact with a shin. A faint grunt was the only response. One way or another, one of them was leaving this bed, and Marcus did not care who. An elbow next? Or should he just grab the edge of the blanket and pretend to fall off the side? That would leave him on the floor with the blanket, which struck him as the best of all possible circumstances. Well, no, it would be better if the other occupant would get up and go away, but--

A slender arm wrapped about him and dragged him closer to the center of the bed.

“Shh,” murmured Savos Aren. “Lie still.”

Since the threat of daedric intervention or further spellwork still dangled over him, Marcus did as he was told. The Arch-Mage’s narrow fingertips scritched over his scalp and gently brushed through his forelock. Marcus was familiar with seduction. He could abide seduction. Normally he adored being touched like this, with off-handed affection; it was so rare. But this enforced intimacy-- he shuddered. Erdi furiously resented having to share her bed with anyone. Now Marcus understood.

Oh, no. Erdi. He had forgotten about Erdi. Marcus had been gone for a couple of weeks now. She would be worried. Marcus' other friends would be worried. And Marcus’ uncle was going to be pissed. They’d had words about Marcus haring off on his own without telling anyone. Marcus sat up, only to be hushed again, and coaxed to lie back. 

Savos tugged the sheet loose and spread it out over both of them, straightening the twisted blankets. Marcus received no more remonstration than a kindly pat. A few words, and then the Dunmer was gone for a few minutes. When he returned he coaxed Marcus back to him, slinging an arm and a long thigh over him, hemming him in. Savos’ warm breath dampened the back of his neck. The wisps of his beard tickled. All of this grasping possessiveness should have been suffocating… but it was not. It felt good. Too good.

Marcus yearned to lie awake, to fight until he could convince the Arch-Mage to set him loose, but he could feel himself drifting. As his traitorous body softened and melded, and his breathing slowed. Savos Aren continued to pet him, arms to shoulder to chest, murmuring to him until he slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, this is a good old trope, isn't it? Stop kicking me! And settle down for Kyne's sake.


	2. Fake Relationship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It must be _so_ embarrassing, to have all of your colleagues suddenly made aware that you've been <strike>keeping a pet captive</strike> hosting your boyfriend against College regulations. 
> 
> Assuming, of course, that they can do anything about it other than gossip.
> 
> It's good to be the Arch-Mage.

“Is that one of my students, Arch-Mage?” demanded Mirabelle Ervin, incredulous.

Marcus stopped dead, in the act of putting a silver goblet on the shelf. He stood still, conscious of how he looked, in his bare feet and with his half-open robe and disheveled hair. It was warm in Savos’ private chambers, and he had been napping while waiting for Savos to come to bed. He’d gotten up and felt a bit restless, and decided he would clear up the dishes. Mundane ware was put away in cupboards, but the fine silver was kept out in the reception room. Savos Aren liked to keep his pretty things both in use and on display.

“Um--” Marcus managed, because there was no reasonable explanation for his presence. Or for the presence of all these sour faces, scowling at him.

The Dean of Students for the College of Winterhold wasn’t the only person in the room. There were a couple of Dunmer in fancy robes and an elderly Khajiit, as well as the Aldmeri Dominion’s Advisor to the Arch-Mage, in his black uniform and his iciest expression. They all appeared to be heading into a meeting in the Arch-Mage’s formal dining room.

Savos Aren immediately crossed the room to Marcus and took both of his hands. “Go on back to bed,” he said, leaning down to put his face so close that Marcus could feel his breath. “You don’t have to wait up for me.” 

Marcus said: “Hey! We’re not-- mmph!” He was cut off as his lower lip was immediately captured again and Savos turned it into a lingering kiss. “Go,” Savos said, lovingly, with an indulgent caress.

“From town,” the Arch-Mage said, turning back to his party. “Not a student at all. We just borrowed a couple of robes out of the laundry for him. If it’s any of your business, Mirabelle.”

Marcus shut the door, and didn’t get to hear the rest of Mirabelle’s sputtered response.

“I don’t know about you,” he said thoughtfully, to the eight foot tall daedric creature standing behind the door. “But I think we’ll be having a more enjoyable evening in here.” His fingers tapped against the hot swelling of his lip, where Savos Aren had suckled at him. “Hm? Well, if I thought kisses might work, I would’ve tried all that weeks ago. I really don’t think he intends to let me go.”

As much as a creature with multitudinous tentacles and tendrils could look sympathetic, it did.

“You’re right,” said Marcus. “At least it’s pretty comfortable up here. And the food’s good. Could be worse. Want to get down that chess board for me? I can show you what I was talking about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It does make you wonder what else Savos Aren has been up to, doesn't it? I can't wait for what Mirabelle has to say next faculty drinks hour.


	3. Forehead Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcus is really such a terrible thief.

It had been Marcus’ own mistake to linger.

He’d realized after a minute or two that he had no hope at all at determining which of the Arch-Mage’s various books were the volumes he sought. Even if he could read well-- he could not-- many of the titles appeared to be in other languages, even the ones that he knew had been authored in good Cyrodiilic. Well, he was only guessing. There were books not only on the shelves, but scattered about the room or locked in chests and cabinets. It was taking him too long to look from each book cover and title page to the note in his hand, straining to discern whether the markings did or did not match. So he should have left immediately and hired someone else to get it done. One of the service staff, or a disaffected student, or that bastard Enthir.

But, no-- Marcus’d let himself get captivated by the hunt, and forgotten everything he’d been taught-- with the result that when the Arch-Mage came in early from his afternoon lecture, Marcus was still on his knees digging around in a brass-lined trunk. There had been a remarkable dearth of magickal traps in this room. Marcus had gotten complacent.

Savos Aren hadn’t even expressed alarm. He’d frozen Marcus in place with no more than a quick gesture; and sent several pulsing waves of a seeking-spell throughout his quarters, to determine that no one else was present. Not satisfied, the Arch-Mage went to go search each area carefully, while Marcus’ limbs went to pins and needles and the perspiration dripped off his face onto the floor. By the time the Arch-Mage returned he had no further need of an immobilization spell. Marcus could barely move.

The cold tendrils of a Command Will spell groped its way into his mind, and Marcus couldn’t do anything other than crab over to the square of carpet in front of the Arch-Mage’s desk. 

“Not Thieves’ Guild, I shouldn’t think,” mused the Arch-Mage. The cold tendrils withdrew just a hair, and Marcus gasped. He would be permitted to speak. He opened his mouth to begin an elaborate lie:

“No, sir,” he found himself admitting. “Thieves Guild wouldn’t have me.”

“Who sent you?”

"Huh? Just me." Marcus tried to squirm. Nope.

"Who else is here?"

“I’m here by myself. There is nobody else.”

Savos Aren walked around Marcus, looking him up and down with thoughtful scrutiny.

“Did Morag Tong send you?” he demanded.

“Morag who?” asked Marcus. “I don’t know that lady." 

“Oh, you probably wouldn’t,” said the Arch-Mage, dismissively. “They rarely reveal themselves to anyone but Dunmer. Dark Brotherhood? Or-- Have you picked up any free-lance assassin contracts of late?”

Marcus just stared at him, lips working. “I-- no?” He stared right back at the Arch-Mage, wide-eyed. “I don’t do that work. Ehhhgggh. Ow. I mean, every once in a long while. I don't really like it. And I don't work for clowns.”

“What were you going to steal?” he was asked.

Marcus shut his lips tight, but the word squeaked out like a little burp: “Books.”

“Anything else?”

Marcus gritted his teeth hard, but: “No.”

“Ah. We’ll get back to that. Be so kind as to remove all of your clothing and step away from it. Further away. Sit in that chair by the wall. No. The wooden chair. Not the upholstered one.”

Marcus got to play audience as the Arch-Mage played detective, as Savos Aren picked up each and every item of Marcus’ clothing and inspected it with deliberate care. He found the lockpicks, of course, and the wire sewn into the seam, and the little knife. There were items he recovered out of Marcus’ belt pouches that Marcus had forgotten about. Where had Marcus picked up that little owl-shaped bead? Did he really need to carry so much beeswax? Or seven stylus-sticks? He cursed his own packrat habits, because Savos Aren mulled over each item at length, subjecting each to a close magickal and physical inspection. So it took forever. Once he was done, he neatly packed all of Marcus’ belongings away into a chest with a leaden-gray aura and a swirling of purple near its latch. A magicka-null chest. Persona-locked, even. Expensive, and very dangerous to mess around with.

“You don’t need to go to all that trouble,” said Marcus. “I’m uh, not exactly a Daedra or anything,” 

“No?” said the Arch-Mage, amicably. “You’re something, all right. But we’ll find out. Drink this.”

It was pink, and gritty, and terrible. The bottle had small gradations on it, but the Arch-Mage made him drink the whole thing.

Marcus was led to a small bathing-room, and directed to get into the tub. It held a drain with oddly large slots in it. Marcus began to get nervous, but the spell’s tendrils did not permit him to do anything other than what he was ordered to do. The tub itself was made of pink stone, gently warm to the touch, as if heated from below.

“The tap has drinkable water,” said the Arch-Mage. “If you want it. You probably won’t. Please try not to let any of the mess get onto the floor. If I were you--” His thin lips curved. “--I’d stay put.”

“What mess?” Marcus nearly asked, but the first effects of the potion hit him and the answer was horrendously obvious. A snap of the Arch-Mage’s fingers and a Muffle spell blanketed the room, so at least Marcus didn’t have to listen to himself. 

Between bouts of misery, he could hear Savos Aren greeting someone cordially-- a guest? That arrogant voice was unmistakable: the Thalmor Advisor, announcing his arrival for the Arch-Mage’s weekly counseling session.

Was the Arch-Mage under the control of the Aldmeri Dominion, then? Damn. That would explain some things that Marcus had learned in his reconnoitering.

The front door closed.

“Must you talk yourself up like that every week?” asked Savos Aren, annoyed. The response he got was unintelligible to Marcus, but the Arch-Mage chuckled. “For the benefit of the servants, then, fine. Ah. It’s from Chorrol, then?”

“It is,” Ancano said. “I’ve already sampled it, and I’d suggest the little cups. Makes the tongue go numb, and the fennel taste is rather pronounced.”

As Marcus suffered through the next two miserable hours, the Arch-Mage and the Advisor did nothing but sit and chat over nothing-at-all. Marcus could hear the snap of cards being shuffled, and the occasional muttered curse and the click of counters being moved around.

“I wouldn’t,” said Savos Aren, suddenly.

“Why not?” asked Ancano, very close to the bathing-room door. Marcus could hear him choke a little. “Oh dear gods--What IS that horrid smell?”

“I have to get Estre back up here to see about the drains again,” said the Arch-Mage. “I’d use the facilities in the Arcaneum in the meantime, if I were you.”

“Ugh! Well, in that case,” said Ancano. “I’d best make my good-byes.” He paused. “Shall I shout at you about Daedric heresies from the hallway?”

“We did that just last month,” said the Arch-Mage. 

Marcus heard the Advisor yawn. “Best not repeat myself too often,” Ancano agreed. “G’night.”

\--

Savos Aren opened the door. 

A swift gesture removed the Muffle spell. “Keep quiet,” he advised Marcus. “Hm. Well, that was certainly effective,” he said, looking down into the tub. “Maybe too large a dose? I ought to have weighed you first.”

Marcus whimpered. Silently, thanks to Command Will. He couldn’t have made a noise if he tried.

A pinkish-purple Restoration spell emanated from Savos Aren and wrapped about Marcus, salving his belly’s woes. He hiccuped, and was still. Exhausted as he was, he paid close mind to that spell; it would be useful in future, yes… for hangovers, certainly.

“Sorry about the purgative,” said the Arch-Mage. “Just needed to be certain. The last burglar we had in here managed to swallow several of the activated soul gem fragments we’d been saving for the anti-necromancy research, and well…” He grimaced. “Outside of a stasis field they’re quite volatile. There’s a stain on the wall downstairs from where he exploded, and I think they’re still scrubbing up bits of him out of the grout. We did recover all of the soul gem fragments, though. So no harm done. Speaking of which.”

His staff had an odd glowing twisty thing which worked its way around and about; Marcus couldn’t stop staring at it. A gesture by the Arch-Mage, and Marcus was pinioned by some strange Daedric creature that popped into existence to weave tentacles around Marcus’ body and most of his limbs. He writhed and kicked, silently. One of the tentacles stroked down his front and he screamed, finally hitting a pitch of terror that allowed him to momentarily overcome the Command Will spell.

The Arch-Mage glanced up.

“No, sorry, Shibari,” he said. “We don’t need all that tonight. Just hold onto him for a few moments, please, while I ascertain… Get him rinsed off, will you?” A seeking tendril found a lever, and water began to rain from the ceiling. Marcus was held under the needle-sharp spray, coughing and sputtering, until the Arch-Mage deemed him clean enough. The spray stopped.

“Get rid of everything in the tub,” he instructed the Daedra. “And take care of that stink.” The filthy water instantly vanished into Oblivion, foul odor and all; and the air in the small room cleared. The tub gleamed, pristine.

“I do hope you didn’t have any vials of antidote or anything stuck up your arse,” said the Arch-Mage, turning the taps on. “That would be awkward for you, wouldn’t it?” He turned to a cupboard nearby, tossing some pellets into the water. Marcus tensed, still in the arms or appendages of whatever-it-was. Poison? Some kind of concentrated acid?

“Now that’s a funny anecdote,” the Arch-Mage was saying. He wiped his hands on a small towel. “I had an assassin once who managed to do away with herself via that very means. You see, she knew I had suspicions, so she shared every meal with me-- every plate and every cup. Her plan was to get away from me long enough to get the antidote into herself before I’d noticed that I’d even taken ill.” He chuckled. “Now what she didn’t reckon on was me finding of her little vials before they could be placed in situ, if you know what I mean? All I had to do was prick holes in them. Turns out too much antidote can be its own kind of poison.”

The pellets had blossomed violently purple streamers through the water...that faded to a soothing lavender. The scent of violets began to rise from the water.

“Stop crying,” the Arch-Mage said to Marcus, as he tested the temperature of the water with his wrist. “Oh. You can put him in the tub now, Shibari.” Turning back to Marcus: “Here. Soap. Towels. I’m going to get you a robe, but before you wear anything of mine, you’re going to take the most thorough bath you’ve ever had, understand?”

Marcus did understand. More importantly, the Command Will spell understood, and it directed his movements. Under the embarrassed scrutiny of the Daedric creature-- it had no face, but Marcus didn't have to guess-- he scrubbed himself clean and washed his forelock out several times, scrubbing vigorously at the rest of his scalp. He dug under his toenails. He washed out his ears. He found himself at the sink basin cleaning his teeth, vigorously.

The Arch-Mage had not come back in, but as promised, there was a robe, and a pair of fur slippers, and... What was it? One of those hooded hats that drape over one's shoulder? Marcus couldn’t figure it out, so he left it on the chair. Or, he tried to. Command Will dictated that he dress himself in all of these garments, but Marcus did not know how. He gave it his best efforts.

The Arch-Mage stared at him, mouth agape. Then he began to laugh.

“Shibari?” he called, waving the daedra over to them. “Did you do this?” 

Sheepishly, the large tentacled creature managed to convey through its posture that it had not.

“Here,” said the Arch-Mage, unsnapping closures and tugging the thing loose. “It’s not a … hahaha… mantle. Dogleg closure. See how it works?” He held it up. “It’s a pair of smallclothes.” The Arch-Mage got a look at how Marcus’ sleeves were hanging off his arms and how the robes were puddled on the ground and said: “Never mind. These’ll just fall off you. You don’t need to wear them. Hm. Here.” He made a small gesture.

Marcus gave a great sigh as the Command Will spell released him. He didn’t have much time to enjoy freedom. The Arch-Mage promptly paralyzed him from the neck down. A motion of the staff, and the tentacled Daedric creature-- er, Shibari-- picked him up again, and gently placed him into a chair, patting his limbs into place. As if it felt sorry for him.

“You could just ask, you know,” grumbled Marcus. 

The Arch-Mage ignored Marcus, and busied himself with some sort of summoning… no, wait. Banishing ritual, as the Daedric creature shook its tendrils in great distress, before fading from view.

“Hey! I have to ask. There can’t be that many burglars coming in here. Right?”

The Arch-Mage raised a brow: “You’re the second. The first one-- we didn’t determine he was a burglar until we determined cause-of-death,” said the Arch-Mage. “That was an entertaining couple of days, picking up all those pieces.” He pulled his own chair around to face Marcus’, and went to get a small table and some small items.

“So-- ah.” Marcus had been thinking about this, and he was still perplexed. “Obviously that’s a set-spell in that staff of yours there, and it looks like all it does is summon the um, tentacle creature to you.” He hesitated. “What’s the point of doing that, then?” 

“Being a Conjuration mage has many benefits,” said the Arch-Mage, mysteriously. He poured himself some fennel brandy. Then he frowned at Marcus, got up, and went to the cupboard.

“Why am I here?” Marcus wanted to know.

The Arch-Mage walked behind Marcus, which was tremendously irritating, because Marcus couldn’t turn his head to follow him. A brandy-cup was held to his lips, in offering. Grimacing politely, Marcus sipped at the nasty stuff until it was gone. The blazing heat of its potency spread a warm glow all the way down to his midsection.

“Do you mean, why are you still here?” inquired the Arch-Mage, settling into his own chair. “Instead of down on Master Collette’s slab awaiting autopsy? Or waiting at the jarl’s prison for him to have your hands chopped off for thievery?” 

“Thanks,” said Marcus, still rubbing his tongue against the roof of his mouth to soothe the alcohol burn. “I was kind of wondering.”

“Let’s have you answer some questions for me, first.”

“I don’t think so,” said Marcus, with as charming a smile as he could muster whilst taking short panting breaths through his mouth. Damn, this stuff was strong-- “Nooooo...” He groaned, as the Command Will spell washed through him again.

“You’re here until I get some answers,” said the Arch-Mage, sitting down and taking slate in hand. “So. Tell me the thing that you would least like me to know.”

“Are you, uh, sure about that?” Marcus managed to ask, before Command Will spiked him with pain. 

Marcus answered that question.

The Arch-Mage had gone a bit grey. Well, greyer. He was already a Dunmer.

"Is that, ah, a custom of your people?" The Arch-Mage looked shocked. Morally outraged, even.

Marcus scoffed. But, he answered that question, and those that followed, letting the answers flow as they would. Meanwhile his magickal senses poked and prodded at the Command Will spell itself. No one had told Marcus to not mess around with it, so...

After several more minutes the Arch-Mage stopped. “I think we have gone astray,” he said, his voice a bit shaky. He coughed, to clear it: “Let me give you some guidance. I don’t want to hear any more about your personal life or circumstances. Or, dear sweet Mephala, your family.”

“That’s too bad,” said Marcus. “We were just getting to the good parts.”

“Just tell me who sent you to break into my rooms!” 

“Um? No one,” said Marcus, puzzled. “No one tells me to do anything. If they did, I wouldn't listen. I do things on my own.” He smiled.

“You don’t read,” said the Arch-Mage.

“Nope!” said Marcus, who instantly learned that if he answered quickly and brightly enough, he would actually get the approval of the Command Will spell. Happiness spread through him like the brandy: he understood exactly what he needed to do to take this thing apart.

“You came in to steal books,” said the Arch-Mage.

Marcus cheerfully agreed.

“Nothing else?”

Marcus said: “No." 

"You didn't want any of my things?" The Arch-Mage gestured, towards the shelves and chests and boxes that held a vast array of rarities and magickal objects. He sounded a little miffed.

"If I wanted any of that kind of junk I could go get it out of that closet that Adept Enthir's got hidden down in the third basement level." Marcus grinned at the Arch-Mage's reaction. "Much less risky,” he added. "And there's no point in stealing from mages when Enthir's kind enough to keep it all in the same place." Oh, good. Enthir richly deserved whatever would now come his way. Marcus continued to fiddle with the Command Will spell.

“Which books were you after?”

Marcus was only too happy to explain, finishing: ”...And that orc librarian got shitty with me when I asked but I stayed around long enough that he said you might have them. Do you?”

The Arch-Mage frowned, clearly not wanting to give up that information: “What were you going to do with magickal books? Sell them?” 

“Eventually. I wanted to know what was in them. I’d find someone to read to me,” said Marcus. “I’ve got a couple of people who might do that.”

“Spells? Cantrips? Invocations? Those are very dangerous things for the untrained,” reproved the Arch-Mage. He frowned down at his slate. “I’m still not convinced you’re telling me the truth.” His face bore an odd expression. Marcus was still under Command Will. He should have been rendered incapable of telling anything but the truth. 

Marcus could see what was going on. The Command Will spell was convinced that Marcus was telling the truth, but his stories were so ridiculous that the Arch-Mage didn’t believe him. Marcus watched the pretty color-patterns that the Arch-Mage’s hands were making in the aurbic spectrum as he tried his own adjustments to the Command Will spell, to no avail. It was fascinating. Sort of like knitting in its way. Marcus followed all the little lines and patterns. What would happen if he pulled at this one.. There? Nothing. Hm. He tried again.

One of Marcus’ ghosts finally showed up. He made a little noise as if to say: hello-- where have you been?

She shrugged, and knelt at his feet, with a meaningful look at the Arch-Mage.

Marcus snorted. “You tell him, then.”

The ghost did not seem inclined to, but she wasn’t haranguing Marcus this time, so Marcus let her be. He couldn’t turn his head quite far enough to look at her properly, anyway.

“I’m sorry,” said the Arch-Mage, after a few more moments. “I didn’t catch what you said.”

Marcus repeated himself, and the Arch-Mage leapt from his chair: “Who else is here?” he demanded, and set off another seeking spell. An impressive one, this time. It bounced white light and reflections off every wall as it bounded and rebounded along the curved walls of the Arch-Mage’s Quarters.

“Sorry,” said Marcus. “Just my ghosts. They don’t stay long. Just long enough to bother me and make me look like a crazy person.”

“Ghosts,” repeated the Arch-Mage. 

“Oh, yeah,” said Marcus, and blithely told the Arch-Mage everything that he knew about his ghosts; about what had happened with Sheogorath, and Vaermina, and how he had spent a good four months out of his own head, and…”They’re all Dunmer, for some weird reason,” he said. “Someone I talked to said that maybe I had accidentally got adopted into a Great House or something.”

“That does NOT happen,” said the Arch-Mage. He was looking a bit unsettled. “What else have you not told me, that you think I might like to know?”

Marcus was only too happy to talk. The Arch-Mage looked more and more dismayed. Finally, he said: “Getting back to the books. Just where did you think you would sell these things, once you were done with them?”

Marcus grinned: “That’s easy: Auryen would buy ‘em.”

With a sigh, the Arch-Mage rose to his feet. “Auryen Morellus. It would be him, wouldn’t it? I should have realized sooner. Hm. He doesn’t have anyone working for him at the moment. Are you freelance?”

No, Marcus wanted to say. I am working for him. 

But the Command Will spell was still active, and so: “Yeah,” Marcus admitted, sadly. “I keep hoping that if I get a big enough score that’ll change, but so far it hasn’t.” He hastened to add: “I don’t usually steal from people…”

“That’s obvious,” murmured the Arch-Mage.

“...it’s usually abandoned temples and draugr tombs and Daedric realms and so on.”

“Well,” said the Arch-Mage. “I have decided. You will stay here with me, and I will contact Auryen Morellus myself, to.. Hmm. Verify your credentials, as those damned Thalmor would say.” He scowled. “Are you working for them?”

Marcus said: “Are you kidding me? I was going to ask if you’ve been working for them. Why else hide all those books about dragons?” He tried again to wiggle his fingers, and failed. “I hate Thalmor,” he went on. “Worst kind of priests ever. Well, I mean, there’s this one I talk to sometimes, but that’s not my fault, I keep tripping over the guy. You can blame my uncle for that one. I never thought he’d be such a fool, but there you are.”

The Arch-Mage’s scarlet eyes blinked. Then he said: “Is the particular Thalmor whom you are referencing the same person who suggested that you come to the College to look for these books?”

“Yep!”

The Arch-Mage sighed. “Well, I’ll be looking into that, too.”

He directed Marcus to go back into the bathroom and used the staff to summon the poor put-upon Daedra once more. It began to take shape, looking relieved to be present.

“Hey,” said Marcus. “Don’t you think it’s kind of rude, yanking a person back and forth between realms like that? It doesn’t feel very good.” He folded his arms. “That’s from personal experience, you know.”

The Arch-Mage rolled his eyes to Aetherius. He turned to the daedra with exaggerated politeness: “Shibari? Would you like to join us here on Nirn?”

“Yes,” said Marcus, immediately. “That’s a yes. See how the little tendrils are upraised and the suctiony bits are exposed? Happy.” He waved a hand. The daedra waved one of its smaller tentacles right back at him, and shimmered, as it became fully corporeal. 

“Really,” said Marcus, to the Arch-Mage. “You don’t know how to talk to each other?” He shook his head.

“I’m going to take a bath to settle my nerves,” the Arch-Mage announced, severely. “Shibari will guard the door for me. In the meantime, could you make some snowberry tisane? The brown jar. And there’s some pastries in the red tin on the shelf. Eat them all up if you like.”

Apparently, Marcus noted, the Daedric creature was going to guard the bathroom door from the inside. Evidently the Arch-Mage had cast that Muffle spell again, because Marcus couldn’t even hear the water running. But on the credit side of that ledger, the Command Will spell had either worn off or been cut off by the closed door. So Marcus was perfectly free to explore. 

The door leading to the Arcaneum was locked, of course.So was the door leading out into the Hall of the Elements, and another door that Marcus could not identify. It was quite narrow. The roof, maybe? Marcus touched each of them, in turn. The set-spell that Marcus had used to defeat the front-door lock was, of course, tightly locked up with the rest of his belongings. It had gotten much too dark in here for him to explore further. He walked back through the Arch-Mage’s informal sitting room to the kitchen hearth.

After the purgative and all that talking, he felt dry as a bone. Ah. There was another tap, located near where the kettle rested. That was convenient. There even a small sink with a drain, for the washing-up of cups and the like. It didn’t look like any heavy cooking got done in here. Breakfast, maybe, and the reheating of dishes carried in.

Marcus rustled about through the cabinets in the small kitchen area and found nothing of excitement. Similarly, the bricks of the hearth concealed nothing of interest. Or, at least, the bricks concealed nothing initially. By the time Marcus was done, a useful-looking kitchen skewer had been thrust deep into the cracks of the chimney, with its handle broken off, and a dusting of ash to conceal it from casual inspection. He did not know what to do with the paring-knife, which might well go missed. But a knife would be too useful. Marcus settled for placing it on the mantelpiece behind a stone vase, where it could conceivably have been misplaced-- but where he could snatch it up in a hurry. Marcus made some other changes to the Arch-Mage’s property. He had no real illusions about what would happen in a fight; but he felt much better now.

There did not seem to be much else useful present in the kitchen area. Marcus poked through the brown jar and determined that it did contain dried snowberries, as well as some dried powdery substance. Well if it was poison, it couldn’t be as bad as that vile concoction he’d already suffered. Marcus was thirsty.

He kept refilling his cup with water, drinking while he waited on the kettle. It was not boiling yet. The Arch-Mage had a small chair and a tiny desk to one side of the kitchen, just about big enough to hold a scrap of paper. Marcus couldn’t make out the writing, but there was a little sketch, either of a seed pod or a very complex magickal set-spell. Marcus experimented with a little flicker of magicka. It was mathemagickal, for sure, but Marcus couldn’t quite figure out what it was for.

He made the tisane, and poured it into the teapot to let it steep; poured his own cup, and drank it off. It was good. Eventually he began to feel hungry, and rifled the tin for pastries, which proved to be stuffed with apricot jam.

\--

Marcus could never have survived had he not learned to read body language at a glance. He looked the Arch-Mage up and down, and then the daedra, which seemed to be preening itself. Parts of it glistened. Politely, Marcus looked aside.

“You seem, ah, tired,” he said to the Arch-Mage, because that seemed to be the most diplomatic way to put it. The Arch-Mage’s hair was freshly washed and streaming loose, his eyes were heavy-lidded and complacent, and his mouth looked like-- Marcus was pretty familiar with that self-satisfied expression.

Savos Aren made a non-committal noise and went over to get something out of his wardrobe.

Swiftly, Marcus glanced over at the daedra.

It shrugged.

“Really?” he mouthed. The two of you?

It shrugged again.

“Since you’re getting along so well, I expect you’ll enjoy each other’s company,” said the Arch-Mage, returning. He locked the two of them in the bathroom. “Don’t let him out of this room,” he instructed the daedra. At least there was a pile of blankets on the bathroom floor now, and a pillow. But there wasn’t much room for the two of them here--

The daedra folded itself up into a much more compact size and tucked itself into a corner, as if to demonstrate that it would present no threat. To be fair, it looked rather sleepy and post-coital.

“That’s what the Arch-Mage summons you up here for?” Marcus asked again. And, at the answer, he said: “Well, I should have guessed, given that he named you after some Akaviri--” Rope-tying sex thing. Marcus cut himself off, and cleared his throat. No, there was no sense in being rude. “Say, is there some better name that you want me to call you?”

No, Shibari was fine, the daedra indicated, amused at Marcus’ hesitancy. It knew.

“So um, if it isn’t too personal-- do you um-- actually like what these mages summon you up here to do?” Marcus looked over the creature’s tendrils and tentacles and bulges and suction cups and mysterious orifices with a professional’s eye. Must be one hell of a party, mused Marcus.

The daedra shrugged again, making movements to demonstrate that it got some benefit out of the process.

It’s a living, Marcus translated. He groaned in unhappy sympathy. “Yeah, I get it. It’s the septims you gotta pay to get through the door. It’s like that all over.” Sounded like things were pretty tough on whatever plane of Oblivion that Shibari came from. “Have you been to New Sheoth?” Marcus asked, suddenly.

No, it had not.

“That’s too bad,” Marcus said, sleepily. “I got an invite, and I haven’t figured out if I want to go.” He yawned. “What about Quagmire?”

Shibari indicated its deep distaste for the entire plane. Marcus concurred.

He laid his head down on the pillow. Might as well try to sleep, and see what horrors the Arch-Mage was going to subject him to in the morning. With an odd rustling noise the daedra slumped and uncoiled to rest more of itself on the floor. 

One of its tendrils undulated over to brush Marcus on the forehead, and then retreated, as if to say: Good night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know your day has been the horror of horrors when the perverse eldritch creature from another dimension decides that it needs to be nice to you. But then, Marcus makes friends everywhere. Real friends, I mean. Not just patrons!
> 
> Shibari may look a bit familiar. It's a guest from [MissDelight's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDelight/pseuds/MissDelight) [Sweet Dreams and Dark Desires](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2919758/chapters/6492959)


	4. Body Swap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thalmor Justiciars may occasionally prove to be of good use. If you need bridges, or something to ride around on. Or plausible deniability.

“Well, I don’t think he’s one of Ancano’s,” said Colette Marence, as she was leaving. “Ancano stopped by this morning to complain that you were, quote ‘up to something again’ and insinuated that I might know more.” She sniffed. As far as Colette was concerned, anyone who abandoned the study of Restoration to don the black boots of the Thalmor was a traitor to all magery. 

Savos Aren said: “Thank you again for coming up on such short notice,” and made a show of holding the door open for her to leave. Along the way Master Colette managed to petition him, for the third time this morning, for her own locked study area in the Arcaneum.

“Not that it would change anything, you paranoid old hedge-witch," murmured the Arch-Mage; and then: "Well, that certainly didn’t answer any questions of ours, did it?”

Marcus had listened, fascinated, as Colette reported that he was what he seemed to be: a young adult human of mixed heritage-- mostly Colovian, in her estimation, despite his appearance-- who was in robust good health. And who had good potentia as a mage. Marcus wished he had listened to his uncle’s elf earlier when the elf been going on about residuum and capacity and magickal flow, but all of that nonsense had been remarkably sleep-inducing.

There were a couple of packets of herbal medicine on the table, Marcus was looking them over. “It did for me,” he advised, cheerfully. “I didn’t even know I had the itch. Explains a lot. Did she say two spoons of this once a day or one spoon twice a day?” He examined the bone spoon with great interest. “I never had any doctoring before,” he said. “Do they normally do that magicka scan thing?”

“No,” said the Arch-Mage, still holding his mouth all pursed up like a cat's ass. “They do not.”

“Ah,” said Marcus, still engrossed. He liked new things, and the packets were pretty. One's paper was the bluish-green of a thrush egg, and the other incorporated dried flowers. “Can I keep these?” he asked.

Master Colette had been nice to him. She’d asked a few questions of her own, where the Arch-Mage couldn’t hear her. She’d wanted to know if the Arch-Mage was having to do with him. Marcus was confused. Colette ran through a few other old-lady euphemisms before resorting to the most basic words. “Oh! No,” Marcus’d said. “He isn’t. I honestly don’t know why he isn’t, but he isn’t. I guess I'd understand more about all this if he was.” 

Colette had then gone to interrogate the Arch-Mage, who had blithely informed her that he was holding Marcus in custody until he received word back from the Jarl of Winterhold and some other sources. And that would take time, as the jarl was all the way down at his kinsman’s steading. From the expression on her face, Colette Marence also believed that the Arch-Mage was lying. 

Savos Aren was going to keep Marcus here for his own purposes, and for as long as he cared to.

\--

The Arch-Mage was happily going through a stack of books that he had requested, selecting those that he thought might be good for Marcus, who could not read. Books of sacred paintings; of illustrations of magickal constructs; the anatomy of plant leaves and mushrooms and skeever limbs and who knew what-else; of theoretical depictions of cosmological entities; and a how-to pamphlet on knot-tying. Anything he could find with lots of pictures and few words. Rolls of papers; chalk and slate; paints in a variety of colors; and a selection of pens and ink and brushes were also scattered on the table. 

"Buy him a doll, why don't you," suggested Urag gro-Shub. "Maybe that'll keep him from ripping apart your cushions and climbing your drapes."

"While you're coming up with such good ideas, why don't you go and fetch for me that cube model construct with the extra-planar attachment?" Savos mused over the items on the table. "Also a couple of balls of string."

While Savos Aren busied himself, Marcus had gone to sit on the chair near the door to overhear the conversation going on in the next-door ought-to-be-used-for reading room:

"Hey, this is getting good," Marcus said, to the Arch-Mage. "Mind if I go listen in?"

He was waved along. The compulsion spell that Marcus had been put under kept him from going too far away from Savos Aren. He'd tested. About sixty feet was his limit.

"No? Well, if Colette Marence and that damned Thalmor-- sorry Faralda, no offense--" 

"Haha! None taken, I assure you," said the Destruction Master, airily. "Call them whatever names please you. Just don't be all offended when I plagiarize your work." She snickered. 

"Anyhow, if THOSE two agree on anything, I think we can take it as read." 

Female laughter, from a number of parties. 

"Also," the first voice said, slyly. "A certain someone has been skipping supper club. And--just up and vanishing right after afternoon lectures, every day this week. Sometimes he leaves early." 

"If you had that to take upstairs and roll around with, wouldn't you do the same thing?" said Faralda. "So, has anyone here actually gotten a look?"

Marcus sighed. Despite the rampant speculation, he'd told Master Colette the truth: all he was getting from Savos Aren was sleep, and cuddles. An annoyance, but since they had started going to the clubs and the parties, a very minor annoyance.

He wandered back to riffle the paintbrushes, telling himself to be content. 

Once upon a time this had been his dream, to be kept like this. He had a warm place to stay; a truly luxurious bed; and really good food that was never stinted. The Arch-Mage brought in new cuisines for him to try, just to see how he liked them. Fine things to look at and to wear--the Arch-Mage let him dress as he pleased and bought him anything he asked for--also plenty of toys and musical instruments. Every evening, he had the Arch-Mage's undivided attention; and if the two of them got bored they used the magickal portals to visit other places. Marcus had been to Wayrest; to Daggerfall; to Mournhold and Blacklight; even to Stros M'kai. And people here had been noticing Marcus. They were talking about him, which was just what he would have wanted. So he ought to have been perfectly happy.

Except for one little thing:

\--

“No,” Marcus said, mournfully. “I can do a lot of things in here, but what I can’t do, is cross that barrier.” He indicated the magickal field that stretched along the semicircular wall of the Arch-Mage’s quarters, blocking his egress from any of its doors. The Arch-Mage had not been able to keep Marcus from manufacturing lockpicks-- so this was his response.

Cyrelian knelt down to try to examine it more closely.

“Can you see anything at all?” Marcus wanted to know.

“Not so well,” his uncle’s elf admitted, getting to his feet. He ran his hands around the doorframe, frowning at a box-shaped protrusion about halfway up. He tapped at it: non-magickal, he thought. “I think it might be unique to Dunmer. If there’s any spell there at all, it certainly doesn’t feel like one of ours. If that makes any sense.”

“Kinda,” said Marcus. He bounced on his heels, suddenly anxious to keep the elf here and to keep the elf talking. He didn’t think he’d ever miss a Thalmor Justiciar, but he was pretty desperate to talk to someone. Anyone. Other than the Arch-Mage and, well, Shibari. The daedra was doing a pretty good impression of a tall tropical plant over by the Arch-Mage’s desk.

“I’m not sure why it works on me and not anyone else,” said Marcus. Trying to cross the Arch-Mage’s threshold caused him to hit what felt like a small tangle-field Shock spell, causing his muscles to spasm and writhe until he either crawled away or passed out; or both. He’d been locked in this place for quite some time, and had worked his way past a number of the Arch-Mage’s other restrictions, but this one he could not figure out.

“Are you sure it’s actually a Shock spell in the floor?” asked Cyrelian. “What if it’s just a really high-grade Illusion spell that’s been cast on you? That would explain why no one else is affected. Not even Ilsa.” 

Ilsa was Urag gro-Shub’s not-so-secret elderly cat. The orc wasn’t supposed to have a cat-- no one was to have pets-- but he said he wasn’t about to abide vermin in his Arcaneum. Marcus couldn’t touch the threshold, but if he was very careful, he could stand just to the side of the door and stretch his fingertips just enough to turn the door handle. It was how he let the cat in. And his uncle’s elf. But he couldn’t get out the door, himself.

“Savos takes me out with him,” said Marcus, slowly. “I’ve been all over the College-- mostly in the Arcaneum. But we never go through these doors. He takes us through portals and he keeps me right with him. Even if we’re just going onto College grounds.”

Cyrelian frowned. “He used portals just to avoid having to bring you through that door?” He went onto his knees to stare down at threshold again, unhappy. “That doesn’t make any sense for an Illusion spell,” he agreed. “But if it’s a pretty involved set-spell meant to remain in situ, that would explain why he was so willing to expend all that magicka on a simple jaunt for you to fetch books.”

Marcus blinked. "What?"

“Portalling’s expensive,” explained the elf, earnestly. “Magickally speaking, I mean. So whatever this doorway spell is, undoing and redoing it would probably be even more of an expenditure.” Cyrelian was watching Marcus closely as he spoke, anxious not to cause offense. One thing that was good about this Thalmor Justiciar, Marcus felt, was that he didn’t like to talk down to anyone. Cyrelian was always mentioning that he was in trouble with his Thalmor superiors. No wonder. Not being a dick must violate some provision in the Thalmor service manual.

“I know,” said the elf. “Why not test to see if it really is the floor? Do you think you could walk across on my back? Like I’m a bridge? Or-- I could try to crawl out with you, ah--.” This little theory failed as well. On the first attempt, the two of them simply fell over. During the second attempt, the young Justiciar gamely attempted to remain on his hands and knees and move forward despite all the screaming, but it was no good. Marcus ended up on the floor whimpering in agony until Cyrelian could drag him clear of the doorway.

“Do you have any other ideas?” Marcus wanted to know, shaking a wrist. His fingertips still felt weird and jangled. It was a hell of a Shock spell.

“Not really,” said Cyrelian, a bit downcast. He began to wander around the room, looking at this and that. He ended up in front of the desk, went away from it, and then circled back. He was staring at Shibari.

“What's this?” Cyrelian wanted to know. “A creature from Valenwood? It’s doing something with magicka, I can feel it even with my poor senses. Has it got something to do with that door?”

“Oh, that’s just Shibari. A minor daedra,” said Marcus. Shibari was standing very still, trying not to look shifty, and being about as successful at that as Marcus would have been in the same posture. “Savos summons it in from a place I’ve never heard of. Apo- something. But it gets around the realms a bit.” He grinned. “He liked to summon it back and forth but I talked him into letting it stay here for now. It’s pretty friendly. And really smart.”

He raised a hand and waved.

Shibari morphed into its true shape and waved back.

“Ahhh. Ummm. Um. Well…” said Cyrelian, a little taken aback. He sought refuge in social pleasantries. "It's a pleasure to meet someone from another plane," he said, recovering with grace "Not something that happens every day. My name's Cyrelian. I'm one of the two Thalmor Justiciars on-site. Or, I will be next term, once I become a student. Presently I'm on medical leave, so I'm simply touring the College." 

Cyrelian did not seem to be able to read Shibari's gestures.

After a moment, the elf said: “I think we’d best get back to work here, if you wouldn't mind excusing us.” 

Cyrelian turned back to sifting through the Arch-Mage's desk drawers. “Well,” he said thoughtfully, after a time. “If it’s a set-spell with a locus the Arch-Mage probably keeps the locus on his person or in one of those locked cabinets. I wish we could find it or its trigger.” He glanced around one more time, as if his gaze might happen to fall upon something useful. Then he stood up: “Why don’t you put all of these papers back, while I go look for some more expert assistance?”

\--

“I begin to think that I’ve been told a story,” said Drevis Neloren, coldly. “Where is the Arch-Mage? And who are you?”

“Savos went to Blacklight,” Marcus admitted. “I’m just um-- someone that he’s keeping here.”

“Marcus went missing from town over four weeks ago,” said Cyrelian, who was good at making his face look severe, Marcus felt. “His kinsman and the Jarl of Winterhold's guardsmen have been searching ceaselessly. The gatekeeper here at the College told us that no such person was present.” He frowned at Drevis Neloren as if this lapse in duty were the Illusion Master's fault.

“That’s about right,” Marcus agreed. “Most of the Arch-Mage's spells are gone, except for the one he uses to keep us together when I'm with him, but I still can’t get out these doors.”

“Why are you being detained here?” the Dunmer wanted to know.

“I-- I really don’t know,” said Marcus. “Savos said it was to get confirmation from some people, to see if I was telling the truth about why I was in here, but I think he got all that last week. He said the jarl was out of town?” 

“I think the Arch-Mage already did get that confirmation,” said Cyrelian, who had already gone through all of the correspondence in Savos' desk. “However, it is not true that Jarl Korir has been absent from the hold. He's been both present and available."

“To be fair I was in here to steal books--” Marcus began, and was promptly waved silent.

Cyrelian declared: "If he felt wronged, the Arch-Mage should have had this Marcus turned over to the civil authorities immediately. His actions have not been in conformance with College regulation; and it's certainly not consistent with Hold rule. I should be happy to assist should Marcus choose to present a complaint to the Jarl.”

Drevis Neloren winced. Most of the new settlers in Winterhold were Dunmer, and they were fractious. Half of restive Windhelm was Dunmer. A complaint by an Imperial citizen against the most preeminent Dunmer in Skyrim would touch off even more civic unrest. 

"I'm not promising any help, mind," Drevis Neloren said, uneasily. "But show me."

“Marcus thinks it’s a spell cast on the threshold,” said Cyrelian. “Something like that should carry a large enough magickal signature for him to be able to see it. He can't. My own magickal sight is currently still a bit disrupted, but even so I couldn’t feel anything at all. So I thought perhaps it might be an Illusion spell tied to Marcus himself, so I thought maybe you could take a look and help undo--”

Drevis Neloren said: “I think you fail to understand that I am under authority here. The Arch-Mage’s motives are certainly not something that I would be able to question. I--”

His gaze fell upon Shibari, still standing over near the desk, no longer in its guise as a houseplant. All of its tentacles and protrusions and clefts and what-have-you visible.

“Is that what I think it is?” Drevis demanded, sharply.

Shibari looked a bit abashed.

“Well-- yeah,” said Marcus. “Savos says he’s happy we’ve gotten to be such good friends.”

The Illusion Master made an angry-sounding noise. But after that he was much more willing to help them, so that was all right.

\---

It turned out that the spell on the door to the Arch-Mage’s quarters was hardly a spell at all-- it was that small box on the doorframe that proved to contain some sort of seeing-eye device which switched on the Shock spell only in the presence of short, dark-haired individuals. Shibari, Drevis, and Cyrelian could all easily pass the threshold. Marcus, still trembling with aftershocks, could not. And it was no wonder neither Marcus nor Cyrelian could find the trace of magicka that the box was drawing, because its tiny current was easily drowned out by the background noise of all of the other magickal items in the Arch-Mage’s quarters. The Arch-Mage liked to bring in oddities from other realms.

Drevis Neloren said: “Quick and dirty will have to do. Try not to talk to anyone. Now--” he turned to Cyrelian, who now appeared to be impossibly short and curly-headed. 

Is that what I look like? Marcus thought, despairingly. No wonder no one ever takes me seriously.

“Test the mechanism,” Drevis directed.

As soon as a short, dark-haired Cyrelian tried to cross through the doorway, the spell triggered and he yowled, convulsing on the floor in agony. Marcus watched Drevis Neloren conceal a grin, and got the distinct feeling that the Dunmer Illusion Master did not like Thalmor. Even the ones who weren’t dicks.

“Your turn,” Drevis said to Marcus. “You have less than half an hour,” Drevis Neloren had warned Marcus. “Better walk fast.”

In his Altmer guise, Marcus was almost two feet taller. He could not help cringing as he passed through the doorway-- but he exited the Arch-Mage's Quarters without incident.

Marcus held onto the handrail and carefully made his way along.

He wasn’t used to be up so high, and the vantage point was dizzying. Altmer, he thought, are way too tall. He could see over everyone’s head! This was fun at first but after awhile it was just plain ridiculous. He was going to get a neck crick if he kept looking down like this. No wonder they all liked to keep their noses in the air. Back spasms.

As he inched along, he found himself grateful that Cyrelian’s recent recovery from the vertigo of his illness meant that everyone was accustomed to the elf walking around cautiously and sitting down a lot. Otherwise it would have been awfully hard to explain all of the stumbling.

All Marcus had to do was to get away from the College and its proctors, before anyone at the College noticed anything unusual. So he had the easy part of this job. His only real trouble was that everyone in his path wanted to stop and chat. Who knew a Thalmor could be so popular? Marcus kept his responses monosyllabic and pushed his way on by, anxious to get into the safety of his uncle’s house.

Back at the College, Cyrelian was going to get the harder part of the job, which would be trying to assure a very angry Arch-Mage that no, no, it had been an accident, he had probably just fallen. He had knocked on the door, and thought it was open, and come in-- and that was the last thing he knew. No, he hadn’t noticed anyone present. No, he had no idea how he had gotten a bruise on his skull. He was reasonably certain that he must have fallen onto the carpet. Very sorry for the trouble, he hadn’t had any of these attacks of dizziness in a long time...yes, he would be incredibly careful crossing the bridge on his way back.

Marcus wondered how long Savos Aren might keep the youthful Thalmor detained. Not Marcus' problem, he thought happily, settling himself down at his uncle and Erdi's kitchen table, looking about himself in wonder.

He was free. 

\-----

Marcus' joy lasted about as long as it took the Illusion spell to expire. No one was home. Within an hour he was bored. Within three he was wishing he had his slate with him; he wanted to practice his Dunmeris letters again. And by that evening he knew he was going to go back.

“It’s a compulsion of some sort,” said Erdi, worried.

“I don’t know what it is,” said his uncle’s elf, flustered. 

The Arch-Mage had not wished to keep a pet Thalmor. 

Cyrelian had been trying to check on whether he could figure out what kind of spell it was, and to do so he’d had to hold onto Marcus’ wrist and pat over his head and chest and shoulders with his other hand, trying to figure out where it was. Sometimes these things took the form of an imperceptible collar or bracelet or belt around the waist. Trying to get through this process whilst touching Marcus as little as possible was making it even more awkward. Eventually this was no longer entertaining:

“Hey, If you wanted to feel up me, you could’ve done it earlier, when you were wearing my seeming.” Marcus tilted his head back to gaze up at the Altmer, and grinned. “Didn’t that Illusion spell give you enough time to play with my dick?”

Cyrelian could not have retreated faster if Marcus had burst into flame. He was already on the other side of the kitchen, arms crossed, glaring.

Erdi snickered, and then recovered herself. 

Marcus' uncle burst out into a full-throated guffaw. “Hey, hey, none a that,” said Ahtar to Marcus, amused. “No call to be rude.” 

Cyrelian was still miffed; Ahtar got up and went over to him, cozening him. 

After a couple of moments, Marcus' uncle said: “So, ah--what’re we gonna do about all this?

“Welp, I know what I’m going to do,” said Marcus. He got to his feet. “It's sort of like being jabbed in the ribs constantly, if that was a mental feeling. Like being really busy and really bored all at the same time. It sucks." 

Actually, it wasn't all that bad, and probably Marcus could get rid of it given time, but he was dying of curiosity, and-- 

"So I’m going back, at least for a bit, until I can figure out how to get rid of it. Or maybe get him to take it off me.” Marcus put the last berry scone into his mouth. “Could one of you maybe tell the Dovahkiin that I’m on a job?” he asked, somewhat muffled.

“Already done,” said Ahtar. ‘Did it the day we figured out where you was. Took Cyr a little bit to get to you.”

“‘Alright. Thanks.” Marcus used his fingers to cram the last bite of scone into his mouth; swallowed it down in a huge lump, and dusted the fallen crumbs onto the floor, just to watch Cyrelian wince. Too easy. 

Erdi swatted him. “That’s disgusting. And stop teasing Cyr. That’s not funny.”

“Oh yes, it is,” Marcus countered, grinning at the discomfited Thalmor. “Look at him! He's all red. I bet he’s wondering what I was doing with that illusion of his body, to pass the time.” Marcus held up two fingers and crooked them, in vulgar demonstration. "Ow!"

Erdi had swatted him across the head again, this time hard enough to sting. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get moving. I want to get back here before dark.” 

As they walked, Marcus tried to define to his own satisfaction what the remnants of the compulsion spell felt like. It was like having a long hair wrapped around his toe or stuck in his smallclothes... oh. There it was. Marcus tugged at the spell-strand and it unraveled itself at once and fell away. He learned that it had actually been doing nothing.

Huh. 

Well, there was still much more to find out more about dragons; and Alfgar was too busy now to go out on excavations; it was just too boring to stay at Ahtar's place and watch him nuzzle the Thalmor; and Savos was _teaching_ him so many interesting things... 

Marcus kept walking. Compulsion spells are easy enough to feign. 

As for the seeing-eye device gazing down from the Arch-Mage's door frame, Marcus had no remaining concerns. Erdi had one of Ranmir's small sledgehammers tucked in her belt. 

She looked determined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Cyrelian is still complaining about this incident.


	5. C̶o̶f̶f̶e̶e̶s̶h̶o̶p̶ ̶A̶U̶-- No! NOT A FUCKING COFFEEHOUSE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No, really, I wouldn't put you guys through that.
> 
> You do like waffles, right?

“Keep your voice down,” said Savos Aren. “And your head. Don’t touch me--" He tugged his arm away. "Please. Not at all. Stay at least a foot and a half away from me at all times. Try not to look at me too much.” He handed Marcus an odd-looking black obloid, shiny on one side and rough on the other. “Play with that if you want to fool around with something. Don’t drop it.”

“Play?” said Marcus, dubious.

“Press that bit there,” directed the Arch-Mage. Odd symbols lit up on the thing, and Marcus gasped. It had magicka; pretty much every item in the world had magicka, but this one thrummed with power. And it radiated light.

“Come along,” said the Arch-Mage, who had finished with whatever he was doing with the item he’d just put on his face. More shiny translucent stuff, glimmering briefly under the light. Curious, Marcus reached upwards.

“Stop. I just cleaned my glasses. Don’t smear them. Stop trying to touch me.” Savos Aren groaned when he saw Marcus' fingernails, because he'd forgotten all about them. Seed pearls and gold-leaf, all done for that party in Balmora. It had been a scene. "Just-- keep your hands out of sight as much as possible."

Obedient, Marcus tucked his hands into the pockets of this new short-robe. It was comfortable, just like the thin loose short trousers-- but neither were particularly attractive. The walls of the buildings along this street were lined with the same shiny substance, and reflected back the two of them as they walked along. So unflattering. Were Marcus' knees really that knobby? The Arch-Mage, by contrast, was wearing something that fitted closely to his upper body, and it showed off his slim build much better than his usual fur-lined robes. Also, he got to wear long pants. It wasn’t fair. Marcus took a few experimental stomping steps. He did like these boots. Metal toes, the Arch-Mage had said.

The path they were walking on was some sort of whitish flat stone, each broad and square and perfect; clean and damp. Beside them, water runneled by down a small channel into a gridded hole in the ground. On the other side of this channel ran a wide road, sort of bluish-grey. There weren’t many of those odd-looking carriages parked on it. Where they walked, the path was as bright as day, with lights too painful to look at, hung up on tall poles that stretched well up into the sky. It was all wondrous. Marcus was told not to stare around too much.

One of the doors with writing on it opened, and Savos Aren came forward to take hold of it, smiling and beckoning the small crowd of people out of it. Marcus watched, curious. One of the women-- he thought maybe an Imperial, she had long dark curly hair-- had a small Redguard child by the hand, who twisted about to look at Marcus. He smiled and waved. The child’s eyes widened and she flicked her fingernails in return-- pretty-pretty!-- and tugged at her mother's hand. He touched his hair, miming the little girl's braids in flattery. Pretty! She laughed. Without looking back, her mother scooped her up and settled her on a hip.

“In,” smiled Savos. 

Marcus could smell food, and drink, and he was hungry again, so he let the Arch-Mage shove him onto some sort of odd padded bench attached to a table.

“So, ah, where are we?” he asked. “Seems like we’re pretty far from Nirn.”

“Correct,” said the Arch-Mage.

Marcus said: “I really don’t think it’s Oblivion.” 

“What makes you say that?” 

Marcus took in the sight of the old men seated at the counter and the dark-haired man sweeping up. From the aromas that wafted by, the long strips of meat on the plates being carried past could be nothing other than bacon. Bacon was a pretty clear sign, Marcus felt, that they couldn't possibly be in Oblivion. He could smell sweet bread baking, heady with an unfamiliar floral spice.

“It’s… um." Marcus paused. "Too many different things all in one place. All mixed up. Those Daedric princes like their planes--” He gestured, and the light caught his fingernails with gold sparks. “Just so.” 

Something huge, flashing colored lights, screamed its way past the window. Everyone, not just Marcus, winced at the loud noise as it passed. No one seemed alarmed.

“It’s all chaos here,” Marcus finished. “I don’t think even Lord Sheogorath would like it. But too many things are the same as Nirn.” He grinned. “I smell fried eggs in butter.” 

A goblet of spring water was presented to him-- ice? At winter camp, Marcus spent quite a bit of time getting ice _out_ of his drinking water, these people seemed to want to put it in-- as well as a large glossy card. Marcus entertained himself by looking at its pictures, while the Arch-Mage spoke with the server, in some flat clipped language with no real intonation. Marcus thought it would be hard to learn. There was no song to it.

“Why all these different kinds of people?” Marcus wanted to know. “They’re all from different places. I can tell from the way they look and talk. If this place is so out of the way, why are they all here? What’s the attraction?”

The Arch-Mage agreed with this reasoning and explained: “It’s a college town, with nothing much else here but farmland. Not too dissimilar from Winterhold. So you get a wide variety of people coming here as students or instructors, even though it's such a small place.”

“Ah,” said Marcus. “So-- why are we here?”

“It’s a Waffle House,” Savos Aren said, with a wry little quirk of his mouth. “We were supposed to go to a coffee house but I can't stand those places. Unbearably pretentious. Also I was hungry for waffles.”

They were interrupted. Marcus pointed at the picture with the round brown flatbreads and the eggs and smiled at the tired-looking woman. She nodded, and asked a question. The Arch-Mage answered for him.

Marcus said: “Ask her for beer. Dark if they have it.”

“There’s no beer here,” Savos Aren said.

The word for ‘beer’ must be similar; the server was looking askance at Marcus.

Savos said something to her, quickly, and she laughed. 

Marcus took another look around himself, at the other diners and what was at their tables, just in case he had made a mistake. “I thought this was some sort of taverna.”

“They do have beer in this realm. Just not here in this restaurant. And it’s not the right time of day to buy it, either.” When Marcus looked concerned, Savos hastened to say: “It’s all right. I told her you were from Europe.”

Marcus said: “Oh. This place only sells food?” And not even small beer? That was weird.

Two mugs of steaming brown liquid were slapped down in front of them as the servitor went someplace else in a hurry. More people were coming in.

“Careful with that,” cautioned the Arch-Mage. “Coffee’s pretty strong.”

“Why? Will it get me drunk?” Marcus blew on it and sipped, cautiously, making a face at its bitterness. He drank again, thoughtfully. “This is better than that rotmeth stuff you had me try,” he said. “Kind of takes some getting used to, though. It has alchemical properties?”

“It’s a rather potent stamina enhancer,” agreed the Arch-Mage. “Would you like some unfermented cider, instead? Or cow milk?”

When the food arrived, the Arch-Mage’s waffles-- some kind of cake mashed in a gridded pan- looked far more appetizing than Marcus’ own plate, so after some cheerful debate the two of them swapped bites back and forth. The eggs were... well, they were eggs, though a great deal more sulfurous than Marcus cared for. The bacon was overcooked but fine. The waffle cakes, covered with some sort of savory toasted nuts, were phenomenally good, and Marcus found himself chewing through another plate of them after the Arch-Mage ordered more.

Two more people came in, one in a tight-fitting frock and the other in loose garb; both of them were painted to go out. They shoved themselves into that corner booth in the back which already held too many others. He could not sort out identifiers; they were too alien to him. One had hair just like Marcus', all cropped except for a long forelock and the bit in the center. Oh, Marcus was doing what he ought not: staring. He got hostile glares from this crowd until he pushed back his own hood, and shook out his hair in demonstration. Marcus shared a smirk with his new friends. They, like the child, seemed to share an appreciation for his fingernails. The server, by contrast, had actually winced.

But now everyone was looking at the Arch-Mage, and there was frowning, and nudging, and whispering. They began to fuss about with another odd device, similar to the one Marcus had been given, except theirs was not plain. It had a cover with black-and-white skulls and flowers on it. Marcus was already envious. Could he get one of those?

“So,” he said, as they sat over more cups of the sludgy brown beverage. “Is anything of any interest supposed to happen here? Or are we just supposed to--”

Savos Aren shrugged again. “I didn’t receive any particular instructions,” he said. “So I thought, why not get a late supper?”

“Careful,” the Arch-Mage said, a few minutes later, and slid his arm away from Marcus’ hand. Marcus did not understand. "It's worse than Balfiera here," he was told. "These people have a lot of taboos." 

Marcus was more and more baffled by the Arch-Mage’s ensuing explanations.

“Age?” he said.

“Oh, yes,” said the Arch-Mage. “Absolutely. Gender--” Marcus nodded, he was familiar with that one; he got hassled a lot when in Cyrodiil and he could tell from the pugnacious take-no-shit attitude from the people crowded into that back corner booth that this was a thing here. 

“Let’s see, what else. Social class-- they say it does not exist, but it absolutely does. Skin color-- they call it race but they don't have races here; it's just minor differences in physiognomy and pigmentation. Oh, and religion.”

“Wait,” said Marcus. “How on Nirn do these people know what religion we are or aren’t. Just by sight?”

“They assume. Just like we assume that people from the southern Nibenay probably don’t worship Jephre. Cultural signifiers.” Savos smiled. He looked good as a human, his now-black eyes dark in a narrow face. His skin was still just a bit darker than Marcus', but it was light brown, not grey. He'd kept his beard just the same.

“Huh,” said Marcus. “They care about all those little details but not about, say, race?”

Savos Aren chuckled. “It’s only humans here. No elves. No other races. That’s why I chose this guise.”

“No elves?” Marcus laughed. “Not too shabby. Maybe I’ll stay.” 

When he looked up, he lost his smile. He could see the other people in the restaurant watching the two of them, reflected back in the glass. “Do you see how all of them are looking at us?” he said, unnerved.

“I warned you-- we don’t look like we belong together.”

“Next time I want to be dressed like you. Will that make it better?”

Savos Aren said: “Not really.” He sighed, and moved his hand away. “Well, maybe. And next time a little less eyeliner. Do follow orders better, please.” He appeared to subside into meditations of his own, drinking his coffee.

Marcus got bored with watching how the reflections of his gilt fingernails changed against the shininess on the table whenever he moved his fingers. So he went back to fiddling around with the object the Arch-Mage had given him. If he pushed on a certain square, the blank face of it showed whatever he pointed the back of the obloid at. 

“What’s that?” he said.

“It’s called a camera,” said the Arch-Mage. He took it away, pointed it at Marcus, triggered it, and handed it back. 

Marcus looked at his own image, in fascination. “It sees me like an eye does,” he said. “Does it know who I am?”.

“Well, this one’s not biometric,” said the Arch-Mage, his nose a bit pinched. He muttered, “The other one cost half of Nirn,” and flinched at the flash of the camera.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” said Marcus. “Erdi gets upset easily.” He wasn’t really attending; he was busy taking pictures. Of him, of them, of the shiny logo on the window. Of the rotating blue--

“Soooo,” said Marcus. “What did you say the blue lights signify? The blue and red ones, I mean.”

The Arch-Mage patted his lips with a napkin. “Guardsmen on urgent business; healers; and the bucket-brigade people-- they employ guildsmen for all of that here. Why?”

Marcus said: “Huh.”

He’d found other things to play with on the device.

Within a few minutes Marcus got to see one of the wondrous carriages up close-- there were three of them!--as the guardsmen spoke sternly to the Arch-Mage. The interior was all shiny-dark blue and smelled strongly of cleaning-compound. And, faintly, of vomit. Its door did not open from the inside. Within about five seconds the novelty of sitting in here had worn off for Marcus.

A group of people from the restaurant had come outside to stare at them, though Marcus noted they were standing well clear of the guardsmen.

A guardsman came around-- this one was a woman-- and opened the door to release him.

She said something to him. 

Marcus blinked at her. Eventually it seemed like she wanted an answer, so he shook his head, slowly: he didn’t understand. 

She turned away and said something to the two guardsmen. They spoke even more aggressively to the Arch-Mage. He saw one of the male officers readjust something on his belt: a tiny set of binds. Marcus hoped Savos knew what he was doing.

The Arch-Mage growled frustration and cast a spell.

You could have done that earlier, thought Marcus, resentfully, as the conversation around himself molded itself into recognizable patterns.

“He’s from Eastern Europe,” the Arch-Mage was saying, frustrated. “One of my new graduate assistants. Of course he’s acting odd and different, he’s jet-lagged, never been over here before; we had to go to DDS this morning--”

The guardswoman jerked away from Marcus and stepped back, her hand going to her side. All of the guardsman turned to look at Marcus, on alert. Marcus stood very still, alarmed. Had he done something wrong?

“He’s just trying to touch your arm to get your attention,” said Savos at once. "Sorry, it's a cultural thing."

Marcus watched all of the guardsmen relax. When the Arch-Mage had told him that the people here really didn’t touch each other, he had not been exaggerating, Marcus thought.

Oh, the lady wanted to see those other things Marcus had been given by the Arch-Mage, the ones he had been warned not to lose. Marcus dug around in his pocket and handed these items up to the woman. One of the little cards was lovely-- it gleamed silver-gold-violet in fancy patterns if it was tilted back and forth under the lights.

Were these visiting cards? Marcus wondered.

“I got a driver’s license and passport,” said the guardswoman. “And a university ID. Somebody called in about a kid, but this kid’s twenty-three.” She rolled her eyes. “Lives over on Bank in that international-student building.” She turned to Marcus: "I don’t need your credit card, or your passport, miss…” She winced apology. “Ah, sir. Just another couple of minutes while I run it through the system. Routine check.” She walked off, touched a box clipped to her chest pocket, and began to speak quietly to herself.

“Really,” said Savos Aren, to the two guardsmen, miffed. “Do we look like dangerous criminals to you?”

“We get a lot of problems around here at night, sir. Just making sure everyone’s safe.”

The Arch-Mage continued to complain until Marcus, who had a great deal more experience with guardsmen, managed to get his attention: shut up and be polite! After that they waited in silence.

“Doctor uh....?” The guardsman grimaced at the card, trying to mouth an astonishingly complex vocative. Savos Aren nodded, and reached out to take his card.

“And Marks... um. Markus. Uhh?" The guardswoman squinted down, and just gave up. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Marcus grinned. He said the phrase that was supposed to be his name, in just the way that the Arch-Mage had taught him. 

“Huh,” said the guardswoman. "There you are." She gave him his card back.

“Folks, y'all're free to go,” said the guardsman who appeared to be in charge. “Have a good rest of the night.”

Marcus smiled at them. “Have a good night,” he echoed.

“I tried to warn you,” groused Savos Aren, as they walked back to the dwelling-place that concealed their portal. “If you don’t listen to me about what can and can’t be done in these places, we’re going to have nothing but trouble. Although I can’t imagine why those young people felt it necessary to summon the local authorities--”

Some things you don’t need to know a language to figure out. So Marcus explained.

Savos Aren threw his hands up in the air and paced around in agitation. 

“I am not your pimp!” he exclaimed, furious.

Marcus let him calm down for a few more strides. 

“Well, to be fair,” Marcus said, evenly. “You kind of are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeez, Savos, tell us how you really feel. And try not to act so creepy; that's how you get stopped-and-frisked. It's getting old.


	6. Huddling for Warmth

The ensuing argument carried them along through several miles of walking and three portal jumps. 

“No! I had nothing to do with whatever-it-was you chose to do with those people at those parties. I simply didn’t stop you.” Savos Aren bared his teeth. “And I never gave them any expectations--”

“Well, they’re _your_ friends,” said Marcus. “And if you didn’t give them any ideas, then they certainly seemed to have some of their own. I don’t even know what we were _doing_ at some of those parties if that’s not what you were after; some of them were pretty raw--” 

Oh, that was a look. 

Marcus glared right back, because well, shit, he needed to stay in character about this whole being-a-prisoner thing: “Of course I agreed to go with you to these places! What else do I get to do? Stare at your wall? When are you going to release me?”

You’re complaining that I’ve locked you in a room?! I’ve taken you through all the possible worlds and shown you every portal I know, just in the hope that--” 

With an incoherent cry of annoyance, Savos Aren gestured at the space around them: a needlessly dramatic show of magicka that should have burned off every trace of a sophisticated compulsion spell. With nothing to consume, the spell sparked off huge violet incendiary bursts, radiating outwards to light the sky in eye-searing trails which would be visible for miles-- and not merely to the magickally gifted.

“You’re no longer a prisoner," snapped the Archmage. "Walk away. Right now.” His eyes were blood-red pits of fury... fading to a puzzled expression at the catastrophic failure of his spell.

Marcus did walk, but just for a few steps. His magickal senses were still reeling. Instead of storming off he turned in slow circles, looking upwards at the looming buildings; downwards at the filthy streets. This place carried a sense of foreboding, and it did not feel familiar at all. Marcus was mortally certain that he and the Arch-Mage had not come this way. Also Savos was an elf again. When had that happened?

“Where are we?” he wondered. 

The chill gusts tore at a piece of refuse, rolling it away, and the Arch-Mage’s beard flapped in the wind. He was looking about himself as well, uneasy.

The Arch-Mage tipped an ear towards a noise Marcus couldn’t quite hear. “Run,” he said crisply. “Get in that alley. Now.”

A few seconds later Marcus could discern it-- the squealings and rumbling of carriages and strange popping noises. Men shouting, and a shrill cry of rage. The two of them crouched behind a metal box on wheels, filled with a midden, rotting away to uselessness and dripping filth.

“Would you happen to be able to find a ley?” murmured Savos, his hand on Marcus’ back to settle him. 

Fear roiled: the only reason Savos would be asking for a ley-line would so that Marcus could track down a node for him, because Savos' magicka had become depleted. Of the two of them, Marcus had much better magickal sense; it was his sole knack. Marcus swallowed. “I don’t know what this place even is,” he said, unnerved. “I could try to send my magicka-sense out for a look, but it doesn't like it here. I’m afraid I’ll get lost.” Ground seethed-- to Marcus’ inward eye, ground was like angry snakes, writhing--and even the feel of this sticky pavement under Marcus’ hands was making his skin crawl.

“Yes,” said Savos Aren, after a few silent moments. “Ground seems to be a very sludgy sort of magicka here, isn’t it? I’m not certain that it’s a good idea to delve deeply into it, either. Not without knowing more about it.” He sighed, conceding failure. “I think we may have ended up in the wrong place.”

Voices again, this time on foot. Males, mostly. Ugly sounding laughter. The Arch-Mage cast a tiny spell, the faintest purple shimmer. The voices receded.

“What were those people?” asked Marcus, almost silently.

“Orks,” said the Arch-Mage, grimly. “I think. Here.” He pulled off his wool tweed coat, as if to put it beneath himself. “I think we’d better stay put, at least till morning. This spell will keep us hidden, but I don’t have much left.”

Marcus did not have any useful spells for this situation, but he’d slept rough before, in a city. He found some dry paper and cardboard and dragged it over to put beneath them. He encouraged Savos to lie with him, slipping his arms about him, the two of them wrapped as best they might in that odd prickly coat. Dunmer are hot-blooded; that fire affinity, he thought. Marcus pressed closer. The Arch-Mage’s breath puffed warmth against his scalp. They would be alright till dawn, he thought.

Maybe.

And they were all right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good thing Marcus knows his way around an alley, even a crappy one like this.
> 
> And now all the pre-selected June tropes are done; but there was a choose-your-own to cap it off.
> 
> And I choose... Shadowrun!
> 
> So that will be several more chapters.


	7. The Trial of the Dweller at the Threshold [RoUS]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Between the astral realms and the metaplanes lurks the Dweller at the Threshold, whose test must be passed before one can move between the material plane and a metaplane. This test is a challenge, comprised of several parts; and not everyone can pass the test.
> 
> Portals are different. So long as someone magickally gifted can activate the portal, and that portal is functional, the risks of travel are negligible. Travel between the metaplanes without having to face the Dweller? For a reasonable amount of magickal expenditure?
> 
> No wonder Rhys takes an interest.

_"So, this has been a waste of our time. You should probably keep the car running, though. I feel like something's up." Rhys tucked a couple of loose ends of hair under his braid._

_Rhys seemed to be on edge. _

_Their driver thought so too-- she grunted acknowledgment and complied before reached back into the paper bag; she was still eating. Duncan, sitting in the back, returned his attention back to the passenger-side window. He was listening to a disturbance a couple of blocks away. Even for a blighted neighborhood, the streets here were barren tonight. It didn't seem like all that much to Duncan, just yelling and the occasional shots fired --ganger kids showing off for each other-- but it was probably enough to keep their contact indoors._

_"Tell you what. Five more minutes, and then we can--" Rhys sat straight up: "Over there," he pointed east, straight out the side window. "Something rippled; it could just be an ebb forming, but--" _

_"Jesus! What the fuck was that!" Duncan cried, at the flash of light. A split-second later, the sound of the explosion battered their ears; that was a major incendiary. Their driver slammed the car into gear and hit the accelerator-- and the vehicle lurched to a stop as they hit an unexpected curve. She made a few false starts, dropping into reverse and bumping a couple of parked cars. Rhys, who had been looking directly at the blast, had clapped hands over his own eyes. "Wait," said Duncan. "I think we're alright." Purple and pink streamers were still blossoming upwards, forming a brilliant chrysanthemum. Some idiot setting off fireworks at street level? _

_"No! Bring us around and get nearer. I want a better view" _

_Their driver grumbled something that sounded like "fucking shamans" and obeyed, taking them in a four-block loop which ended in an empty parking lot nearby, facing the same direction as the blast._

_"Was that magic?" Duncan was still rubbing the afterimages out of his own eyes._

_Rhys turned around in his seat to look at Duncan. He was grinning through the tears still streaking down his cheeks. "Spirits! Yes, that was a very unusual sort of magic." He wiped his face on his arm. "Let's get up closer, please. I really want to see this." _

_"You sure this is such a good idea?_

_"Absolutely! That was-- I'm not even certain what it could have been. Something like a large spirit, conjuring itself? And then it spit light everywhere for-- I don't even know what reason. Whatever that spell was, it didn't seem to do anything but show off." _

_"So maybe it's a just a mage that's both unlicensed and stupid." Duncan listened to the sounds outside the car. "If we're going to do this, we need to move now. Others are taking an interest."_

_"We don't need to be worried about them. I can make sure we have the time to figure out what we're facing." Rhys put his hand out the window to drop a quick spark onto the asphalt, which began to propagate and spread with a sullen glimmer, like heat lightning._

_"Was that a concealment spell?" Duncan was still attempting to triangulate where the shooters might be at. So was the driver._

_"Physical camouflage. One of my bigger ones. Twenty square blocks. Come on, I think we should start looking over here by the epicenter. This is going to be amazing."_

_Duncan traded glances with the driver: This is gonna be another long fucking night._

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Well, Marcus and Savos Aren HAD been all right. Up till they fell asleep. Until a gigantic skeever grabbed Marcus by the arm and latched on, in an effort to drag him away. But after all of the screaming and cursing and kicking and flailing, the evil rat-snouted beast was finally dead. 

“What are you doing?” Savos looked up from brushing at the remains of his jacket, a futile task. There were several large rents from when Savos had whipped it over the skeever’s head to give Marcus the chance to stomp it to death with those glorious metal-toed boots.

“My arm? I don’t…” Marcus hissed softly as he squeezed at the gaping bite. Gods, it was deep and hard to get at, high on the inside of his left arm, almost up into his armpit. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to clamp down harder, so as not to risk the ataxia or the wound rot. Blackness threatened the corners of Marcus' vision. His ears roared as the pain swelled; he couldn't force his own hand to clamp down again. Hopefully it would be enough. “Just making it bleed to wash it out," he managed to gasp. "It's bad. Don't think I can heal right now. Unless maybe you...?”

Savos Aren gestured wearily at the darkened blast radius surrounding them and many, many dead rats: no. He was tapped out. 

Marcus took a few breaths to recover. He toed a dead rat up onto the instep of his boot to flick it out of the way. Better to show off a little, than to advertise that his left arm wasn’t working. He surveyed the ground, now littered with corpses. This was going to be a chore: “Do you think we should move on?” he wondered.

The Arch-Mage hesitated. It was even darker now. Above them, a sickly green light flickered, ominously.

“If more of these giant skeevers were here, they would have come out when they heard us fighting, right? My magickal sight doesn't show any more of them."

Savos flicked his gaze heavenward after giving the four-foot-long corpse a meaningful look: Marcus' magickal sight had not done such a good job revealing this one.

Marcus did not need to concentrate to see magicka; in fact he needed to make an effort to not-see it, which was considerably annoying. How he could have overlooked this huge, grotesque creature? He felt uneasy about that, and came to look over the giant skeever. Its torso was bigger around than his own, and its incisors were bigger than three fingers held together. Marcus shuddered to see it. What damage had it wreaked on him? His arm throbbed, to echo that question. To salve his feelings, he kicked the dead skeever again; and subsided, panting.

"I... ah. Really didn't expect to find wild animals. Not here with all these buildings and people. Do you think that if we go someplace else we might--" He wheezed, and had to pause to grab another breath. "-- run into more of these things? And..." Marcus cleared his throat. "Do you have your knife?" 

“I did,” muttered a still-resentful Savos. “Those guardsmen said to be happy they weren't filing charges.”

“Next time better let me carry the weapons." Marcus squatted down to pluck another dead rat up by the tail and fling it away. He had to shake his hand vigorously to ward off its deluge of fleas. Feh. He gave up and reverted to using his feet, kicking a few more of them out of the way.

The Arch-Mage tried to stand up, and couldn't. 

“You hurt?” Marcus came over to pat Savos down, concerned despite his denial. No dark wet smudging the mage's shirt. Savos' legs felt dry; and his torso, but the skin of his neck was clammy-cold.

"I fear I'm no longer used to combat magick," Savos confessed. "Thank you, I'll sit." Magicka overuse, Marcus realized, from Savos casting those Destruction spells after all that portalling. 

“Well, this place is almost as good as a draugr tomb,” Marcus said, giving a little laugh to conceal his hitch of his breath. “Isn't it? When it comes to giving us fun surprises, I mean-- dammit! Here.” One-handed, he awkwardly slipped out of his hooded garment, hoping that Savos wouldn't notice the size of the bloodstain soaked into it. “Wrap this up around your head, you’ll stay warmer. Cold’ll keep me awake. I'll stand watch. You wrap up and try to sleep; recover your magicka. So we can portal the hell out of here. Right?"

"Immediately," Savos promised, though he looked worried. Marcus continued to smile at him and make emphatic motions. Clumsily, Savos got himself under the ruined jackets and closed his eyes, as instructed.

Marcus leaned against the slimy brick of a nearby wall, stifling a grunt as his bad shoulder made contact. He was feeling rather ill. The pain of the skeever bite pounded all throughout his body, intensifying with each heartbeat and sending up blots of red-limned black to obscure his magickal sight. His left hand couldn’t so much as wiggle its fingers, now. Waves of sickness rolled through him, as he did his best to breathe through it. He could do this. Rest, he willed the Arch-Mage.

\---------

Once it started to rain, Marcus had no choice; he had to take cover. Well, it was that and the fact that he no longer trusted himself to keep his feet. The filthy metal box didn't afford them much shelter, but it was better than nothing, so once again Marcus was curled up next to the Arch-Mage. Savos Aren was suffering those deep, full-bodied shivers that signaled that the two of them needed to get up and get moving. Soon. Now that Savos' coat had gotten damp, there was no warmth left for them to hang onto. Marcus sniffed. The reek of garbage and dead rats hung thick in the misting rain, but the air temperature seemed to be rising. Was it past sunrise? The buildings here crowded out the sky so much, and Marcus could see nothing past the glaring lights. A little flicker of magicka drifted by, briefly reflected in a puddle. It skirted around the corner and ghosted along the edges of the building.

“Seeking spell,” whispered the Arch-Mage. "There was one earlier. This one's a great deal closer."

“They have mages here?” Marcus reached out with magicka, trying to tap into ground. He retreated, uncertain. He hadn’t acclimated. If anything, he felt worse. What kind of mage could make use of a power such as this? Marcus did not want to find out. And when he asked--

“Not nice ones,” said Savos, under his breath. “Looking for us, I fear.”

Marcus nodded. The cough racked him again, forcing him to wheeze and gasp. After the spasm subsided, he began to go through the Arch-Mage's pockets, a bit clumsy from using only his right hand. Savos grunted protest, but it was a measure of his distress that he didn’t try to stop Marcus. A stylus of some sort, not metal. Another rectangular device. Marcus pushed its buttons, but it stayed stubbornly blank, just like his own. A leather envelope with visiting cards and green-tinted scrip. Nothing helpful. The Arch-Mage had noticed by now that Marcus’ left arm was useless. At least it was mostly numb.

The area around them grew more visible in the early-morning light. A back corner by the fence glittered with broken glass, but Marcus saw no shards large enough to be useful. Plenty of dead rats, but Marcus could not think of any ways to turn a dead rat into-

“Next time I want a real weapon,” he tried to say, and broke back into the cough.

Savos Aren huffed: “Find a node. And try to be quiet."

Good, thought Marcus. Irritation was better than despair. But-- “Can’t," he wheezed. That’s what I was doing most of last night. It’s all this undifferentiated...um.." he gasped. "'Scuse me, sorry.” Marcus clutched his ribs and rode out the attack, trying to remember the right words. He gave up. “My magickal sight doesn’t work through this horrible ground. It's like wading through shit.” He fought for another full breath, and made a gesture: Should we be talking?

“It doesn’t matter now,” said the Arch-Mage, grimly.

Oh.

“Can I ask...?” Marcus tensed his chest muscles to see if that would stifle that annoying cough. His arm throbbed warning.

Savos Aren looked at his own filthy hands and visibly chose to refrain from rubbing his eyes. “You may as well."

“Why?!" Marcus fought the rising tingle in his chest. "Why'd you keep me?” He lost that battle, and the cough racked his whole body, sparking pain from his armpit all the way down his chest. Stabbing lights danced behind his eyes. Gods, oh gods that hurt. He panted in shallow breaths, holding his muscles tight, trying not to cough or cry out so that he would not miss this response.

“Not now," said the Archmage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rodents of Unusual Size? I don't believe they exist.
> 
> Ow.
> 
> Poor Marcus.


	8. Battle [Our Orcs are Different]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trial of battle is perhaps the simplest one: you must fight; and you must win.
> 
> Sometimes the struggle isn't physical so much as mental; and sometimes it's knowing when not to fight back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Emergent medical care, respiratory distress, vomiting.
> 
> Nobody dies!
> 
> Marcus is pretty sick there for a bit, so that's his battle--but don't worry-- it won't slow him down that much.
> 
> Wait. Who are we fighting, here?

_"You know what? This isn't getting us anywhere. You're sorry. I've accepted that you're sorry. Let's move on." Duncan sat down on the bed, and patted the space beside him: "Come here." _

_Rhys was shaking his head, upset with himself. His face and neck were flushed. He kept trying to pace about in the too-small room, the fingers of his right hand opening and closing as if it hurt._

_"One minute I was just standing there, trying to comprehend; and as soon as I did, I just couldn't deal with it." Rhys drew a breath. "I was not out of control there. I was not." _

_Duncan nodded._

__

_ "And I knew-- I knew how it would affect you and I wanted him to see that too. He needs to fear us. He needs to fear me." _

_"I said you're fine. We're fine." Duncan reached to take Rhys' hand, and looked it over. It wasn't badly swollen. "Truth is, I wanted to punch that guy too. He's been a total pain in the ass, pestering us constantly about this kid. And now we know why. There's a couple of cuts here." He rubbed his thumbs over the back of Rhys' hand, where the puffiness was already subsiding. "I've been there, you know that. It's hard to walk that line. You get drawn in." Half play-acting and puffing up; half tapping into real anger. "So yeah, it can be upsetting." He kissed Rhys' hand and pulled gently at each finger, to unjam his knuckles. "I'm more worried about you than anything else, If that helps. We should probably go down the hall and get some ice for this. Do you still need to go heal that bastard?" _

_"He isn't seriously injured. Just bruises." Rhys tried to laugh. "I do know what I'm doing. And I did check him over, just in case. I'm just--" His expression was still tense. Almost anguished. "I'm just sorry you had to be there to see it."_

_"Listen," Duncan soothed. "I know you. You're not that kind of--- ahhh. Shit." _

_That was an officious-sounding knock. _

_Duncan rose to his feet. "Security. I got it. Go clean up that hand."_

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Marcus watched with his magickal sight as the searchers quartered the area, getting closer and closer, until an enormous orc stepped into view.

“Oh, hey,” Marcus would have said. If he had the breath for it. He couldn't help the wash of relief. Orcs, in his world, were alright people. Good Legion soldiers; plain-spoken; decent; generous with their coin if they had any, and they never tried to get funny. 

Savos Aren had not relaxed, not at all. He had gone more alert.

Oh, wait, that's right. Orks, the Arch-Mage had said. Not the same folk.

The big ork said nothing. It was impossible to read his expression under the lenses he had strapped to his face. Without looking away from the two of them, the ork used his thumb to tap at his own rectangular device in a quick odd pattern, keeping his other hand free. There was no point challenging him. From his stance he carried many weapons, though Marcus was only able to identify one or two.

It didn’t matter. Marcus was in no shape for a fight; Marcus couldn’t even draw in the foul air here. He coughed harder, and tried to spit out whatever was causing this mess; he nearly retched, and fought it hard. If he couldn’t get his breath, vomiting would kill him; he’d seen that happen in a skooma den, once.

The big ork was frowning. He tapped at his device with his thumb, again. He said something incomprehensible to them.

Marcus took another breath to try to speak, but all he could do was make a series of barking noises, as he fought to get air.

The ork gestured at Savos, who took that as permission to come over to Marcus. The Arch-Mage’s hands were far too cold. They burned. Marcus shuddered. Savos was really doing poorly if he was that cold, and he ought not be casting anything. A trace of a healing spell ran through Marcus. And was that the translation spell? Why, he thought distantly, had Savos wasted magicka on that?

“What happened to his arm?” the ork demanded.

“Some giant rodent,” said Savos Aren, pointing at the skeever. “A thinking beast; it used magicka. I don’t know what it did to him, but I suspect some sort of spell or poison.” The Arch-Mage indicated the rats lying dead all around them. “It called these to itself, but--” He shrugged.

The ork grunted. He raised his rectangular box to his mouth and spoke into it, rapidly. He smirked. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “For certain. Sure, we can bring them in. No, not a good plan. I think you’d better get down here. Quick.”

He touched the screen again and put the device away, his face impassive. Then he reached for something tucked away in the back of his belt.

Weapon.

Marcus tried to cry out, but it was too late, and Savos had already collapsed to the ground, a thin metal bolt sticking out of his neck. A broad hand shoved Marcus to the pavement, and when he fell down onto his bad shoulder he blacked out.

\---------

When Marcus came back to himself he was still coughing. He was lying on his side in one of those carriages, and if it smelled of anything it was his own vomit, and the lean-bodied ork on top of him was rather frantically wiping it out of his mouth and away from his face. A hissing thing was held back to his nose and mouth. 

“Breathe it, will you? It’s not going to hurt you.”

With no real choice, Marcus did so, and the tight clutch of his chest eased almost immediately. He sucked down air, gratefully. His heart began to pound much too fast, flaring agony down his useless left arm.

He tried to get up, and the ork forced the loosened mask back over his nose and mouth, pressing him back down.

“Okay back there?” said the big ork. To the driver: “Take us a little further out.”

“I need one more moment, please,” said the ork on top of him. A mage, Marcus realized, as a shimmering, expectant green filled the space around them, lush and deep as the moss after rain in the shadow of the great trees of Falkreath. “Going to sting,” Marcus heard.

A sharp pain as the ork stabbed something into Marcus' good arm, and a blazing painful heat roiled down it. His body howled at this fresh torment. 

_Run, you little shit. Get out of here. I better not catch you._

He had enough breath back; he had a foot wedged beneath himself; he could-- Bereft of the use of his arms, Marcus had to lever himself upwards with legs alone.

“No you don’t,” said the mage, in all good humor.

_Run._

Marcus redoubled his efforts. The ork mage's full weight pinned Marcus to the seat, as the ork stretched an arm behind himself to fumble in a bag.

“Rhys?” called the driver. “Running out of time if we want to keep out of their perimeter.”

“Two seconds,” said the healer. “One more.” Another incendiary pain down Marcus’ good arm, this fire so vast and encompassing he couldn’t even scream. It began to gnaw its way through the rest of his flesh.

“Go,” said the ork, with satisfaction, tossing whatever-it-was down.

As the hot flames of agony licked through Marcus, the fire subsided into billowing clouds of grey smoke, obscuring his magickal sight and sapping him of all volition. Grey faded to white, until Marcus was lost, wandering in the fog. All of his pain had gone. Distantly, he knew he ought to panic.

The carriage accelerated sharply as it turned in a different direction. Marcus slid across the seat and his head cracked into the far door. The ork mage rode out the shift in momentum much more gracefully, his left hand still forcing the hissing thing to Marcus’ face, whilst he began to cast another spell with his right. Soothing dark moss; the slant of sunlight through trees, dappling the forest floor. Leaves slowly flipping upwards to invoke the gift of rain.

“Medkit and magic, Rhys?” wondered the driver. Was she an ork too? Marcus tried to move his head, and was prevented. He couldn’t see her.

“He’s pretty sick, alright?" The ork mage's voice was calm, reassuring. "How’re we doing?”

“The other one?” That was the voice of the big ork, the one who had shot the Arch-Mage.

The mage pushed himself up to check over the back of the seat. “He looks like he's still out cold,” he reported. “Other than that, pretty good. Ought to last another couple of hours.” He paused. “Kind of weird-looking for an elf.”

“Kind of weird-looking yourself, Rhys,” called the driver, whipping them around through yet another intersection, this time mashing Marcus' bad arm into the back of the seat. Marcus moaned his distress and the mage gripped his shoulder, steadying him through it. The carriage lurched to a halt.

“Where we going?” the driver demanded. “Duncan? Somebody give me a destination here.”

The big ork said something, but Marcus was busy coughing again, so hard that it consumed his whole attention as he strained. “Suites” was the only word he managed to catch. Gusts of cold air as the window came down, and the big ork swearing. 

“Fuck!” yelled the mage at the other two orks. “What’re you doing?!”

A loud whistling noise overhead, prompting a bellow of pure rage, right into Marcus’ face. Marcus froze. Maybe, if he didn't move, he would escape its attention. Musky fur and a low rumbling growl. Marcus could heard his own ribs creak, as the lean ork's muscles tightened down further. Marcus' useless arm, jammed between him and the seat, was beginning to defeat the grey mists with red-tinged pain. The only breath he could snatch was short ragged hiccoughs until the wheezing started again, in earnest. The ork mage lifted his weight off Marcus’ chest, but kept the pressure on over his legs and his good arm, still jamming the edges of the mask down over Marcus' face. The growl emanating from the ork mage was not a humanoid sound at all.

"Fuck! No, Rhys, keep it together; we're nearly clear! Are you listening?! If you lose your shit back there, we can't take over!"

More of those banging noises, so loud and close that Marcus’ ears started ringing. He could no longer discern what the orks were saying. Apprehension. Sheer raw anger. The ork mage's body continued to screen him from seeing anything of this combat. Destruction spells? Some kind of artifice? Marcus needed to get out of here. As soon as most of the weight was lifted off his chest, Marcus began heaving his body upwards, trying desperately to sit up. The ork mage didn’t even need to divert his attention from the vociferous argument he was having with the driver. Marcus couldn't budge him. 

Strong fingers prodded against Marcus’ ribs to cast another spell. Dark cool waves like Hjaalmarch grass in shadow, after a month of heavy rain, luring his magickal sense with its verdant beauty. Marcus failed to be appropriately wary. Grass brushed against Marcus’ ankles, ever so delicately... It snagged around his legs to draw him downwards into the grey fog.

\---------

Something had been inserted into Marcus’ right forearm, present but not bothersome. He stared in fascination. A fluid, rich with life, was passing through a clear tube into his arm. Some sort of Restoration magick? Marcus tapped at it with his magickal sense but could discern no more, so he bent his arm to look more closely with his eyes. The blue box beside Marcus began to flash irritated red lights. When that warning proved not enough, the blue box reproached Marcus with sharply painful noises that got progressively louder and more dissonant. Marcus straightened out his arm. The noises stopped. All of the lights on the box reverted to a soothing green as the fluid begin to move again.

Marcus shifted about a little. These white sheets were crisp and clean over him, but rucked up under his bare rump was uncomfortable crinkly paper. Marcus could guess why. The bed was clean, but he himself badly needed to bathe. He stank of cleaning solution and his own sweat and filth. He was too tired to try to get up.

A low hum reverberated the walls of this room at a pitch just beyond audible, sounding like Dwemer ruins: more machines. Marcus moved his tongue from side to side, because his mouth was dry; but he was not thirsty. Odd. As an experiment he coughed, which bought him a mouthful of phlegm that he had to choke back down, whimpering because his chest muscles were exquisitely sore. Did he have the rattles? He felt like he'd had a bad chest cold, now breaking up and passing off. The coughing had hurt his left arm some, but not like it had been. It still hung at his side, heavy and limp. He couldn't lift it-- he could barely twitch its swollen fingers, and the deep hot ache convinced him to stop. 

The hissing thing on his face was bothersome, but Marcus remembered the struggle to breathe in the car and so he left it alone. 

“Thanks, Patrice,” the ork mage was saying, as the two of them came in. “I’ll send Duncan if we need anything else, but for now it's all good. He's looking a great deal better.”

“Quite a fighter, isn't he? We don't get many back from VITAS. No, no, you don't need to give me anything, Rhys, it's no problem. Just make sure I get that pump back by the end of the week, all right? Got to get all these medkits refurbished and back in inventory.” The woman-- a remarkably robust human woman-- winked at Marcus, picked up her large rucksack, and left.

Marcus let his eyes droop shut again, just as the ork mage said: “Awake?”

Marcus did not move.

He was left alone. 

Marcus opened his eyes and turned his head to the left to make a few more observations. The window glass here was just as clear and perfect as at the taverna-without-beer. He could see tree leaves through his window, but only the thinnest up-reaching branches against a grey-clouded sky. He was not at ground level, then. Marcus abandoned thoughts of the window.

What he could see of the floor was one large rug of complicated pattern. Ugly. Probably expensive. A large black box sat on a wardrobe facing him, its front surface as dead as Marcus’ rectangular device. A dark-green magickal barrier had been slapped across the door facing him, which had many complicated locks on it. The mage-barrier looked slapdash-- had it been done in a hurry?-- but otherwise solid: no exit here. To Marcus' right, a set of flimsy double doors led to another room. These did nothing to screen out sound. He could hear everything out there.

The orks, sounding aggrieved with the Arch-Mage, and arguing with him.

Huh.

\---------

Marcus opened his eyes again. He didn’t remember sleeping. The big ork was reclined in the armchair next to the bed, his eyes half open. His white sleeveless undershirt was crossed by the strap of a weapon scabbard, and a sheathed knife was visible at his belt. He still wore his goggles, pushed up onto his forehead.

Marcus spent some time admiring the ork's musculature and the scars on hands and arms; neck and shoulder; stomach and side. The sheer fabric of that shirt concealed almost nothing. The ork's knuckles were knobbed and hardened; Marcus regarded that thoughtfully. Marcus also approved the hilt of the knife, and the dark-colored pants with all of those pockets-- which would be more useful? The knife, certainly, but what if Marcus already had a knife? Would having an extra knife, even if it was a really good knife, be more useful than those pants? He couldn’t decide.

After he was tired of this game, Marcus looked around his room again, to catalog the things in it, trying to determine what they were used for. Eventually he got bored.

“Duncan?” he guessed.

The ork opened his eyes, surprised.

Marcus smiled at him, happy that he’d gotten it right.

The ork’s dark eyes remained cold. Watchful. 

Marcus approved of this, even as he decided that his own attempts at charm lacked a certain something. Marcus decided to blame the hissing thing strapped to his face.

_Eyes. Got to watch the eyes._

Even by watching this ork's eyes, Marcus could not discern just what sort of trouble he might be in. So a small test: “Is there maybe some water I could have?”

There was. Duncan went to pour it fresh, just for him, without comment.

"Watch the mask," Duncan warned, and boosted Marcus upwards with one great hand so that he could drink.

There was even ice in the water, again. Just like in the other world. The cold bite of it helped to clear his gummy mouth. Just as carefully, Marcus was laid back down. Duncan adjusted the hissing mask, ensuring that it would be neither too tight nor too loose.

“You hungry?”

“Not really,” said Marcus, his voice rusty and echoing oddly in the mask. “If I could get a bath that might be good.” He craned his neck to try to see further into the outer room, but all he managed to do was trigger the cough. Eventually it stilled enough that he could manage: “Where’s my friend?”

Duncan didn’t answer. He went to the other room.

Marcus resorted to his new hobby of staring at the objects in this room and trying to cough up his lungs.

\---------

“Hey! You’re back with us,” enthused the ork mage, with a broad smile: Like me. Trust me. 

Marcus blinked.

“I’m Rhys. Which you’ve probably guessed." Rhys had a dark ponytail and tattoos down his forearms just as intricate as Marcus', though of much better quality. Marcus very much wanted to be able to smile back at him and trace out those tattoos... but all of his instincts cautioned him to be wary of that breezy voice.

“Hi,” Marcus grudged. He closed his mouth, and waited.

"You’ve been here with us about two days now, in case you’re having trouble remembering things. You had a rough course. How are you feeling?"

"All right."

“So what’s your name?” Despite the cheeriness, that was a demand, not a question.

And that was a problem, because... "Marcus," he said.

"Marcus what?"

Despite all of the Arch-Mage's coaching, Marcus could not recall the complicated phrase that was supposed to be his name. "I don't know," he confessed.

“So, Marcus Can't-remember-his-last-name...would you mind telling me why you have an identification card--” Rhys tilted it back and forth in the light, frowning for effect. “Issued by the State of Georgia, United States of America? And a passport from the Latvian Republic?” He raised his brow. “Both of these appear to be brand-new... but per issue date, created more than sixty years ago? Could you explain that?” 

While Rhys' voice remained friendly, his aura had darkened with suspicion; the lush greens of the living marsh transmuting to the brownish-hazel ripples of a slaughterfish's scales; of the watchful lizard eye and quaking bog. There were depths here that Marcus did not want to explore, sharing an affinity with the murky depths of ground. He was frightened. 

Marcus could not hear the Arch-Mage's voice anymore. Was Savos even here?

Rhys still spoke gently; patiently: “You are going to have to answer me, you know.”

To stall, Marcus said, "I don't understand."

Rhys’ lips drew back briefly, exposing the sharp tusks and fangs of an ork. 

Yow. Just a little reminder there, thought Marcus, the ache in his chest increasing with the hammer of his pulse. "I ah-- I dunno what all you said. I don't know those words."

Annoyed, Rhys flicked the card down onto the table. “Where did you come from?”

By now, Marcus was desperately worried about Savos Aren. So he enunciated carefully, to be certain that he had it absolutely correct: "Waffle House."

More fangs, and then that mock-friendly voice: “Let’s try this again. What metaplane are you from?" A pause, and a grimace: "What is the Grey Maybe?"

Confused, Marcus mouthed Rhys' words. He was unsure of what he was supposed to say. "A what now? Grey what? We went to the Waffle House after we traveled to some other places. We tried to portal home but we got to arguing and Savos got us lost. We couldn't do anything with the horrible magicka here. This place is worse than Oblivion.”

The ork-mage's brows had drawn together.

“So you're also Awakened?” 

Marcus knew very well that Rhys meant: _Are you one of us? _

This was something critically important to the ork mage, but Marcus had no idea how to answer him. So he waited.

"Can you do magic?" Rhys translated. 

“Oh, no, not really. But I can see magicka. Like this--” Marcus held up his right arm. “That’s healing magicka there, right? I can see it and feel it flowing.” 

“What do you see when you see me?” asked Rhys.

“You’ve got a lot of magicka around you," said Marcus. "Moves in many colors but it's mostly all green? Really rich and dark like ivy leaves or the wetleaf kelp you wrap around fish.” He frowned, thoughtfully. Would Rhys get angry if Marcus mentioned that he could see that he was a--? Werefolk were touchy about being called out; and for good reason. Marcus tried to think of ways to bring it up indirectly-- You're good at fishing? You really like honey? His head hurt. He gave up.

"What else seems to you to be magical, here?" 

Marcus struggled to comply, pointing to a number of objects in the room. Rhys winced. "No, that's a clock." And: "No. Trid." And again: "That would be an advertisment." He appeared to be losing interest in what Marcus was saying, in favor of going through one of those bags of healing supplies. Was Marcus failing this test? Rhys glanced up. "No. That one's not magical either; it's just an air freshener." 

Oh good, Marcus was apparently becoming a source of amusement for these people; perhaps it would be all right.

Marcus had noticed something about his right hand. He displayed his index finger: "Why did you do this? It's not pretty anymore," Marcus asked, mourning all of the pearls and gilt that had been scraped from his fingernail. It looked lonely and bereft next to its brethren. 

Marcus read in Rhys' grimace the same disapproval that Marcus had gotten at the Waffle House. "It was necessary." Without even the least shred of sympathy-- Rhys clamped a new device onto Marcus' denuded finger. Marcus yelped as it pinched him. An ear-hurting squeal, blessedly brief, and the device was yanked loose.

"Oh, very good,” Rhys said, in pleased surprise, looking at the numbers on the front of it. “Let’s try without this, shall we?” He removed the mask from Marcus’ face, and touched a switch to shut off its hissing. Marcus was grateful for two breaths and then wished he had it back. His lungs felt stuffed full of dead straw and prickles.

"Want a drink?" 

Marcus was handed an oddly flimsy metal cylinder, and looked it over. It was heavy, full of liquid; and it was curiously cold, which meant it was alchemical or it had been sitting on ice, or both. He tilted it, cautiously. Alchemical bombs were tricky things, he knew, and he didn't know why he had been asked to hold this one. After a moment, Rhys took it from him and made it hiss-- Marcus jumped--and handed it back. Oh. A beverage, vilely sweet, more so than the worst mead. It fizzed like beer.

"Beer would be better," Marcus suggested.

Rhys gave him another stern look. "Drink it." Not a suggestion. So Marcus conceded and went back to sipping this over-honeyed stuff. He was beginning to wonder what all these people had against beer.

“Now it’s time to learn to cough.” Rhys pressed Marcus upwards to sit on the edge of the bed, with his legs dangling over the side. He fussed with the sheet, tucking it over Marcus’ lap. Marcus was unsure about this idea, but he was left to get used to it while Rhys fetched yet another bizarre item.

“I know how to cough,” said Marcus, dubious.

No, no, Marcus did not. Rhys was adamant that he did not. So Marcus had to practice for awhile, under Rhys’ direction, and breathe into this device to make it click, whilst he got progressively more exhausted. His lungs burned like fury, again; and he had coughed up everything that was possible to cough up. Instead of using the sheet-- which was right there!-- the mage made Marcus use these thin paper sheets, damp balls of which were now strewn all over the bed and the floor.

“Do you have to go to the bathroom?”

“Now?" Marcus begged off. "I’m too tired to get cleaned up. Maybe later."

Thence followed a brief discussion in which it transpired that the real question was: Did Marcus need help pissing? Marcus did not. Holding the container to piss into, yes; that was the part Marcus turned out to need help with. But Rhys had good reflexes, so there was no disaster. Marcus was too dizzy to keep his feet, so he was helped back into the bed. There would be no getting cleaned up today.

“What about my left arm?” Marcus asked, anxious.

“It’s getting better,” Rhys told promised. His aura flickered hazel-green for a second: uncertainty. “Not as bad as it could have been.”

Another small bag of something was plugged into the blue device, to drip into Marcus' wrist. 

“What is that?” Marcus wanted to know. 

“Just in case,” Rhys said. Given how carefully he’d handled the bag, Marcus reckoned it to be some sort of expensive alchemy. Rhys clamped Marcus’ finger again-- ow-- and waited for the squeal. Rhys made noises of satisfaction. “Good,” he said. “We’ll check again but I think we can leave you on room air.”

On his way out, he paused: “How well do you know that elf you were with?” Meaning the Arch-Mage.

Marcus didn’t know what to answer. He didn’t know what Savos had said to them. His eyelids were getting heavy.

Rhys persisted. He said that he knew that some of the answers Marcus was giving him were lies.

They were not lies. Marcus was getting confused and tired. He tried saying different things but he did not know what to say that would get Rhys to stop asking.

Finally: “He told me I had to stay with him and sleep in his bed or he would have me sent to the jarl and the jarl would cut off my hands,” Marcus said, drowsily.

Rhys’ head reared back. He regarded Marcus, amazed. “I see,” he said, stiffly.

This time when Rhys left the room he shut both double doors behind himself, Marcus was sorry to note. Marcus couldn’t tell what was going on out there.

Yelling, followed by angry yelling.

Savos Aren's voice was perfectly clear for a moment: “No! You don't understand--”

“I understand this much,” said Rhys, coldly. A loud thump, and a surprised yelp.

"Hey!" said Duncan, in surprise.

A Shock spell discharged, followed by the meaty sounds of someone being hit repeatedly. 

Duncan was saying something too quickly for Marcus to follow: the swift words of a negotiation. The other bedroom door banged shut. The two orks were talking to each other, the sound of their conversation barely audible. One of them seemed to be comforting the other. 

That faint sobbing was Savos, Marcus knew.

Marcus yearned to get to Savos, but this life-giving machine was still dripping healing magicka into his arm; and Marcus wasn't certain how much help he could be to the Arch-Mage when he could not even stand, much less walk. So he sank down into his bedding, holding himself as motionless as possible, and did his utmost to keep from coughing. When the spasms broke through, he turned his head to muffle his face in the pillow so that he could do it near-silently. This made his heart hammer furiously in his chest. The pain in his left arm began to flare like a coal relighting itself to flame, but he made no sound.

An authoritative knock shook the hall door. Duncan went to greet the guardsmen with a glib explanation. He knew what he was doing, there. The guardsmen all laughed with him, and left without even bothering to check any of the rooms.

Duncan came back into Marcus' room to sit, projecting an attitude of saturnine indifference, at odds with his aura. Fury, streaked through with fear; worry.

Marcus looked up at him, expression confident; eyes dry. 

_They'd better be dry, you worthless piece of wet shit. Unless you want me to think of something worth you crying about._

Marcus felt like he ought to dare it. “I want to talk to my friend."

Duncan's dark gaze never wavered. "Kid, he’s not your friend."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our orcs ARE different. Aren't they?
> 
> Maybe?
> 
> Marcus isn't sure.


	9. Charisma [BFGs]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having gotten past Battle-- everyone is still present and accounted for, yes?-- we now face the second trial of the Dweller at the the Threshold: Charisma.
> 
> Convince your way past your opponents...make them love you, or at least respect you...

_"I think the kid is starting to warm up to me a bit," Duncan reached down and tugged Rhys' hair tie loose, letting the thick strands of his braid fall loose. He left one hand on Rhys' shoulder as he reached for the brush. "Be careful with him. He's got my knife."_

_"You have got to be kidding me." Rhys did start to push himself upwards, but caught himself and dropped back down with an annoyed snort. He relaxed back against Duncan's legs. _

_"He'll be fine." Duncan began to work his way through Rhys' dark strands, to get to his scalp. They were only going to get a couple of minutes here and there until this was over; best take advantage of them. "I got it. You all right?"_

_"I am. "I'm sorry; it's just--" Rhys laughed. "It's been a lot to take in. Comparing leys and nodes; manalines and power sites. Sometimes I think we're speaking the same language; sometimes not. This Savos Aren says this plane is all contaminated, compared to what he's used to."_

_"So when they say they're from someplace else, do you believe them? Because I sure do. They're not from here. Who doesn't know a gun? And the kid was totally convinced the trid was real. You weren't sitting close. He was shaking." Duncan had finished detangling; now he was taking long strokes with the brush. "Maybe I shouldn't have tried to desensitize him by having him watch documentaries after that. He got even more upset."_

_"He didn't understand how to operate a soda can, earlier."_

_"You should heard him when the trid was going on about how 'Ming Solutions pays so well--' Now he thinks you're going to sell the two of them off to Wuxing." Rhys' hair gleamed in one soft dark mass; Duncan slid his fingertips into it, relishing the sensation. He began to massage Rhys' scalp muscles. Duncan leaned closer to his ear. "I said, 'Kid, he's healed you. So now he's all attached. Get rid of you? He can't even get rid of an old blanket.' Maybe I should have been a little more persuasive. I'm not sure he believed me."_

_Rhys hiccuped laughter. Duncan pressed his face into the crown of Rhy's head and inhaled his scent for a few stolen breaths. "You should shower and take a nap before I go out to get the food." Duncan's fingernails began to scritch again, and Rhys groaned._

_"That old blanket, I know. I'm even starting to like that disgusting creep of a hermeticist." Rhys pressed back into against the prodding fingertips and sighed. "I'm going to have to go home and bring back a few more of my books." He made a face, and shuddered. "I still want to break his bones. I don't even like that you leave me alone with him. I'm afraid maybe we will end up having to sell what's left of him for parts--" _

_Duncan tweaked his hair and he fell silent. Duncan's fingers continued to work, idly, drawing out the tension behind Rhys' ears. He smiled, because he had finally worked it out: what stupid instinct had prompted that gifting? Rhys' shoulders were finally relaxing. _

_"I told you, I gave the kid my knife. So if I were you, I wouldn't even worry about it. You won't lose your temper with that elf now. Because if you do, that kid will murder you or die trying. I've seen that kind of desperation. Wouldn't end well, for you or for him, and I think you know it." He chuckled, low in his chest; and moved to kiss Rhys' ear; the verge of his cheekbone; his forehead. He pulled Rhys' hair hard, then released him. "So are you still worried that you're going to lose control?"_

_Duncan could feel Rhys move under his hands, his tension shifting as Rhys abruptly chose to refrain from sulking, forcing the mood brighter: "Spirits, you're as crazy as he is." _

_Duncan joined in his rueful laughter. "It's all in the way you look at it. From my side of things, it's not crazy at all. Just good sense." Another kiss. "Shower. Before you fall asleep, or you'll just complain at me again." _

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“No, really, I want to see it.”

“Kid, it’s dangerous,” Duncan said, amused.

Marcus was lying down on the bed again, trying to get his breath back, because the whole process of showering had worn him out. At least someone had changed out the bed linen, and he didn’t have to lie on the paper thing anymore. His left arm was better, and he could move the fingers of that hand again, even though he wasn’t supposed to be using it. He flexed his left wrist. It ached.

“I’m not a kid,” he said, irritated.

The big ork looked him up and down and smirked. Yeah, okay, wearing only a towel certainly didn't help with maintaining one's dignitas. Marcus had been promised pants, but pants had not arrived. So. Towel, and something Duncan called 'a binder clip'. Marcus didn't really see the need, but the orks had insisted. 

He continued to watch Duncan take apart the weapon.

“I own a Dwemer-enhanced crossbow with a deadman trigger and death-gasp bolts,” said Marcus. “It is infused with the spirit of a dead god. Is your weapon as dangerous as that?” He smiled invitingly, but Duncan didn't even look up.

“A gun?” Duncan said, carefully placing its pieces down onto a towel. “Oh, yeah." He made a disparaging noise. "Can a crossbow blow a man’s head clean off?”

“Only if it’s one of the explosive bolts,” said Marcus. “And sure, one of those bolts does pretty good work on a dragon, so I guess it could that to a man. I never even tried.” He sniffed the air. “What is that stuff?”

“Cleaning solvent,” said Duncan. "And gun oil." 

Marcus fell silent. He watched, closely, as the gun was stripped apart into its component pieces, wiped clean, and re-assembled.

“Those little cylinder things,” he began. “Those blow up?”

Duncan glanced up at him, and nodded. “Mine do. Hole this big going in--" He held up a pinky finger to demonstrate diameter. "And coming out--" The fingers of his hand spread wide, to nearly the diameter of a small cup.

“Why?” asked Marcus.

“So you take down the threat.” Duncan grinned, displaying short tusks. No fangs. “Just the threat you're aiming at. Not some poor innocent bastard five blocks away.”

Marcus nodded. It made sense. Still, the weapon itself seemed rather puny.

“What happens if you have to fight a really big creature?” Marcus wanted to know. “Like a dragon with a head the size of this room. What do you do then, with that little thing there?”

“Run away,” the big ork said, unimpressed. He tucked his gun back into its underarm scabbard, and began to pack up his cleaning kit.

“I want one of those,” said Marcus.

“What, a gun?”

“Nooo,” said Marcus. “What good is that? I want one of those things with all those neat tools, that clips together like that. And one of those bags that doesn’t weigh anything that you can wad up all like that and put in your pocket. What are those made from?”

“Nylon or plastic,” said Duncan. "They're nothing special. You end up with hundreds of them." He grinned. "Reminds me. Got to talk to Rhys about that. They're taking over the drawer. He never wants to throw anything out, if it could possibly be of any use."

“Yeah?" said Marcus. "Those'd be pretty useful, I bet."

Duncan chuckled. “Rather have a shopping bag than the gun, kid?” 

Marcus said, without thinking: “I’d rather have that knife.”

Duncan was still fitting the fasteners of his cleaning kit together. He looked at Marcus; really looked at him, eyes thoughtful. “Would it make you feel better to have a knife?”

Marcus paused. It would. But he didn’t want to seem too--

The knife, holster and all, thudded onto the bed. Marcus picked it up, and ran his fingers over the hilt. It was still body-warm and Marcus ran his fingertips over it, sensing its affinity to Duncan. Oh, he would treasure this. He flicked at the clasp to unsnap it, and held the blade up to the light, admiring it.

“Enjoy,” said Duncan.

\---------

This time both Duncan and Rhys came into his room; this was the first time Marcus had seen the two of them together. Duncan held his face more rigidly now that Rhys was here, like he felt like he had to look even more severe; but Rhys’ aura was all entwined with his, knotted around and interleaved in a thousand different directions. Duncan was giving the appearance of standing aloof, but he was constantly attending to Rhys. Rhys's face was calm, but he was very angry. Marcus could read every abortive little gesture, and he did not like what he saw. Was this to be the commencement of hostilities, then? 

His right hand, now freed from any encumbrance, was resting on the hilt of his gift-knife. Marcus knew knives. He had learned in a tough school, and he could hear that teacher now:

_Watch the eyes you stupid little prick. Eyes. Up here. The eyes tell all._

Where there was going to be a feint; where there was going to be a strike; where the enemy was going to take the opportunity to press the issue; or run.

Rhys was looking at Marcus. Duncan was facing Marcus and looking in his direction, but his attention was on Rhys.

_Oh and watch your fucking tongue. _

Marcus hadn't, and Savos had gotten hurt. He clenched his jaw into his smile, and willed the memory of those sobs away; he had to focus.

“We had a question,” Duncan began. He darted a swift glance at Rhys, and stopped. Rhys nodded: go ahead. 

Duncan said: “How old are you, really?”

Marcus froze. Savos had warned him about this at the Waffle House.

Rhys started to demand a response, until Duncan touched a finger to the back of his hand, calming him. Another back-and-forth between the orks, mostly non-verbal and almost too quick to catch. Rhys jerked his chin.

“Sorry," Duncan said, excusing Rhys. "He's still pretty upset." And: "C’mon kid. You gotta know why we’re asking."

“I… I have no idea,” Marcus said. 

"Ahh--" said Duncan, and vented a small curse, but as soon as Rhys took his shoulder he fell silent. Please do not murder anybody, Marcus willed.

_When you know you can't fucking win don't start shit._

Marcus still had his fingertips brushing the hilt of the knife, but he held himself still, because he wasn't stupid. Still watching the eyes. 

Nothing bad happened.

“I don’t know when this place is,” Marcus ventured. The orks did not seem to understand. A bit unnerved, Marcus had to do some swift calculation: "Give me a moment," he requested. "It's all these numbers. I never really bothered keeping track." He opened his eyes. "Somewhere between thirty-eight and thirty-nine hundred-- What?"

Fangs-and-tusks again. 

Marcus looked at Duncan, but Duncan just looked blank, like somebody who wasn't really here. No help there.

"It doesn't matter when in time this place is, compared to where you came from. How many years have you lived in that body?" Rhys was now pointing at Marcus' naked chest, and Marcus did not like this at all. He was beginning to feel anxious; like he had made all those numbers up just to piss off the orks. He didn't even know why he'd said all that, because it couldn't even be true.

“Twenty,” said Marcus. Hastily-- because he didn’t know anything about ork lifespans--“That’s grown. I could've enrolled in the Legion at sixteen. People like me don't live a long time, unless they're mages.” 

"I wouldn't know," said Marcus, taken aback by their next question. "He's never said. But I think at least a hundred and forty?"

Duncan hissed and walked out. He carried himself like a guardsman, confirming all of Marcus' suspicions.

“Please don’t hurt my friend anymore,” said Marcus, worried. 

The knuckles of Rhys’ right hand were scuffed and scabbed. None of these observations were reassuring. Nor were the questions that followed. Marcus couldn’t answer them. He didn't even really know most of what Rhys was talking about. He reached for the coughing device, because that he understood. Using it was the only thing he could think of to do that would make Rhys happy.

Eventually Rhys ran out of questions, performed a swift exam on him, said that he was doing fine, and left him alone.

\---------

Rhys had finally allowed Marcus to get out of bed and to stay out of bed. Marcus was sitting on the floor of the common room, his back against the couch, dressed in a makeshift bedsheet wrap (more binder clips), with a blanket draped over his shoulders. Duncan was slumped on the couch half-asleep.

Rhys was talking about how the two of them had first been mistaken for Free Spirits, and how unusual it was to have incursions from a metaplane--

“No,” Savos Aren was saying, patiently. “To us, _this_ place is a metaplane-- a shadow, if you will, of our own-- and the people here on it are merely constructs of a ficton which is apprehended in the--” 

The Arch-Mage’s voice was blurry from his swollen lip, but otherwise comprehensible; it was just SO boring. Marcus yawned and turned his attention to the images being played on the box. It was like a window, showing scenes from around the city. People were buying fruit from a cart vendor. Marcus grinned. It was fun watching them. He recognized apples, and melons, and peaches, and lemons, and...

“Hey!” he said, sitting up all at once. The blanket fell off his shoulders.

The others all turned to look at him.

“Somebody just got murdered, there.” He pointed, his whole body tensed. Oh, gods, the man’s livelihood, it had been completely destroyed. The cart broken, fruit smashed and scattered all over the street; the fruit-seller himself tossed into a brick wall with haunting finality. What would his family do?

The Arch-Mage spared him a glance, but kept talking to Rhys. Rhys was nodding and drawing diagrams on a bit of paper. Duncan hadn't moved.

“Aren’t you going to do anything?” Marcus got more indignant. “Look, those men there, they got hurt trying to help that poor vendor! Someone drove one of those carriages right back over them!” He started to get up, and his foot slipped, forcing him to sit back down. He started coughing again.

“It’s just trid,” Duncan finally grudged.

Savos Aren spoke up: “What you're seeing is akin to what's on stage, or in a book. It's illusion for entertainment purposes. No more than that."

Seeing Marcus' continued distress, Duncan growled something. He pushed a button and the screen went blank.

Marcus continued to cough and gasp for breath; he was a little slow to recover.

Two pairs of unfriendly ork eyes tracked the Arch-Mage as he went over to Marcus and crouched in front of him. 

“It isn’t real,” Savos Aren repeated. "No one has been harmed." He started to repeat himself, until Marcus nodded: he understood. 

Savos pulled the blanket back up onto his shoulders for him. The sleeves of Savos' much-abused shirt rode up his forearms, displaying the patches of blue-and-purple where he'd put his arms up to cover his face. Red abrasions stood out on his face, shining with ointment. A great knot on his forehead had caused a dark bruise to seep under his eye. Marcus could not stand to look, not at all, but he could reach out for Savo's hand. Savos wouldn't give it. 

"I think you need to rest," Savos said, kindly.

When Marcus shook his head, the Arch-Mage went to fetch the coughing device and put it next to Marcus; a strong hint. Marcus complied. 

Rhys asked a question and the Savos went back to the table to draw a diagram to answer him. Marcus blew into the coughing device over and over, listening to it click as it should. Now Rhys was talking about shamanism. It was still boring, but Marcus watched Rhys closely, to see where he might be lying. The Arch-Mage brought up a question in regards to summoned elementals and the two of them were talking back and forth, more enthusiastically. It seemed a most collegial discussion. As if nothing had ever happened.

“Where'n hell do you come from that they don’t even have trid?” Duncan wondered, under his breath, with a swift glance towards the table.

"Where'n hell do you come from that nobody gives a fuck?” Marcus shot right back, just as low. He didn't want to disturb Rhys, either. Rhys had finally gotten over his irritation with Marcus. He was fully engaged in his conversation.

“Yeah?” Duncan challenged. “You’re still here. Right?”

Marcus hesitated, because he didn't want to seem ungrateful, but: “We’re only still here because your man there wants to learn the Arch-Mage’s magicka,” said Marcus. “And to find out the things he knows. Otherwise we’d be skeever bait.” 

Duncan’s gaze shifted uneasily away, back towards Rhys; and Marcus knew he’d guessed right. 

The big ork cleared his throat, gruffly: "What's a skeever?"

“A big rat like that one that got me," said Marcus. "Not intelligent though. And they don't use magicka. Why do you people leave garbage everywhere when you know it breeds creatures like that to nest in it?" Look at this sitting room. Trash on the counter; on the floor near the overflowing can; in the corners where the sacks and bags of their belongings were piled up. What a dirty world this was. No wonder Marcus had gotten sick. He coughed again, sharply. 

"I'm tired," he said, and let his eyes close, though he was was still closely monitoring the conversation going on across the room. He pretended to sleep.

He woke a little while later, when Duncan turned the trid on again. Seeing Marcus awake, Duncan changed what it was showing. "A documentary," he said. "See? They're just teaching about different things; there shouldn't be anything to upset you. This one's about the history of corporations."

Duncan was wrong about this, too. Marcus found the documentaries incredibly upsetting. But he had learned to keep his mouth shut now. Show no reaction. He watched the trid calm-faced, growing ever more appalled. This was how these people lived? How did they stand it?

\---------

Marcus woke with his face was pressed against shaggy fur, and he felt the comforting rumble of some large beast. It reminded him a little bit of Alfgar and his clan, for some reason. Oh. It was a bear. A bear that thrummed magicka like a cats' purr. And oh, yes, it was tapped to a node so Marcus didn’t have to trudge alone, through this filthy sticky ground. He sighed with relief, following the magickal creature’s tap, just as one horse might follow another on an unfamiliar road, to the stables with the well and trough. He drew from the node, and clean magicka flowed into him, cool and refreshing, until he felt himself replenish enough to begin work. 

Marcus began to unfold some possibilities.

He would start with his left arm.

\---------

“Hey, they finally left us alone,” said Marcus. A little flick of his hand indicated negation. Nope! They sure didn't.

Savos blinked. 

Marcus repeated the gesture. It was thieves' cant; he didn’t know if the Arch-Mage would catch his meaning. The bear was still here, sitting in the corner-- Marcus could hear it wuffling-- but he had tried to hint at it earlier; and evidently Savos could not perceive it. Marcus wasn't certain whether the beast happened to be listening to them; or if it was, whether it cared.

“How far do you think we are from home?” Marcus went to look out the window, at bleak clouds scudding past. Ugly-looking buildings. Ugly-looking sky.

“I don’t know, precisely." Savos was trying for a professorial sort of voice, and not really succeeding. He cleared his throat. "Your lungs sound better," he observed, as Marcus coughed again. "All done eating?"

Savos got up to set their paper plates-- why? thought Marcus-- on top of the already-overflowing trash can, prompting a small avalanche. It was getting unpleasantly aromatic in here. Marcus eyed the doors to the hall-- but there was the magickal bear right there, to monitor them. They were going nowhere. Too bad.

He settled himself down beside Savos on the couch. Savos patted him, and let Marcus slip an arm around his waist. It was nice to be able to sit like this, without orks staring them down. Marcus took hold of Savos' hand, and stared down at their entwined fingers. More of the gold leaf was flaking off his fingernails, and he'd lost a few more of the little pearls. The Arch-Mage's fingers were warm, and his shirt was warm, and it smelled like the inn's laundry soap now, instead of fear-sweat and blood. The frayed edges of its collar, where Rhys had half-torn it off, brushed gently against Marcus' cheek.

“Have you got any kind of idea at all?”

“Four or five portals along the route we came, from the last plane," said Savos. "I hope we don’t have to deal with more than that number along the way back.”

"I only counted three," said Marcus. "From that place where I got us in trouble, to here."

"Oh," said the Arch-Mage, taken aback. "That significantly changes matters." 

Marcus' thumb rubbed over the pulse-point of Savos' wrist, to soothe him. "Do you need more time to recover your magicka?" he asked.

Silence.

Marcus pressed up against him then, seeking, and the Arch-Mage pulled him into his lap and began to pet the back of Marcus' head where his hair was cropped; his nape; and oh-so-tenderly, his bad shoulder. Marcus exhaled, letting his cheek come to rest on Savos’ chest, taking care to avoid his bruises. He could feel the fine thin trickle of Savos’ magicka, which told him all that he needed to know about whether Savos could regenerate from ground here: he could not.

"I wish I could share my magicka with you. Because I would. You could have all of it."

"That's an exceedingly rare gift," noted Savos Aren. "It's not like the songs and stories." He chuckled. "The Altmeri mages tried that, with married couples. The experiments didn't go far. If it were true, their mages would be unstoppable and we'd all be part of the Dominion. But that's not how magicka works." His hand came to rest at the small of Marcus' back, warmth against his bare skin.

.After a little while, Marcus made an inquiring noise. What now?

“I need to go outside to do a proper assessment. A less populated area. This building won’t do.” Then Savos said, “You do seem much better than you did this morning. Did you happen to find a node?”

“Only sort of,” said Marcus. “I wish I could have showed you. It wouldn’t stay completely under my control. I couldn’t hang onto it long, and I can’t find it again. The leys here are kind of a tangled mess. Scouting for nodes here is like trying to find pearl oysters in Riften canal muck. Bleh. And when you do find one, they’re slippery.”

The Arch-Mage agreed with this perception, unhappily.

"I got you hurt," said Marcus. "That guy just wouldn't stop asking me questions, and I got all mixed up and--"

"It's all right," said Savos. "If it hadn't been that reason, they might have found another. I make them nervous for some reason." He paused. "But I find myself perplexed. Why on Nirn would you tell them that you were four thousand years old?"

"I never said anything like that. That's crazy." Marcus yawned. “Do you know why these people aren't letting us go?”

Savos gave a little sniff of rueful humor. “For the same reasons I wouldn’t let you go."

"You wouldn't tell me, earlier."

“Hmmph. These orks want to know what we are doing on their turf, so to speak." Savos touched the thick red scar tissue on Marcus' left arm, taking great care. He seemed to approve of how it was progressing. “They want to know who we are; what we are; and most importantly, whether we can be of any use to them.”

“Oh, is that why you wanted to keep me around?" Marcus bit his own tongue, hard. 

_Oh, and watch how you say shit._

Savos sighed. His fingers began to comb through Marcus' forelock. He traced down Marcus' spine, and then around to his front, where the dragon-soul lived, waking it. It flipped over and turned around and about, curious about the Dunmer mage's touch.

_drem_ thought Marcus, and the dragon-soul went quiescent, back to its long dreaming.

"I still haven't even gotten to the point of determining what you are," Savos said, softly. "It has been a very great puzzle to me."

"Mm, I can be of use," Marcus tempted. "I can be a very useful person." He nuzzled, and slid his hand into Savos' shirt; and when that had no effect, his lap. Savos caught Marcus' offending hand and pinned it flat, until Marcus extricated it from under the layers of clothing.

"No,” said the Arch-Mage. "Find some other way to calm your nerves."

"No?" Marcus's breath puffed, warm against the shirt. "Really? Because I suck as a thief and I'm never going to figure out this magicka crap, and well... I guess you won't be needing me to cut throats. Can't see any other way I'm going to be of use." 

Savos Aren's long fingers gripped Marcus' chin hard, sealing Marcus' lips tight: Stop saying things like that. 

As soon as he saw Marcus' reaction, Savos let go. 

"Sorry, sorry;" Marcus gasped, the terror still roiling through him. "I'm really sorry. I'm so scared." 

He lay still and gasping, willing himself not to cough or to do anything else annoying. Savos had set clear limits about where Marcus was allowed to touch him, and Marcus had just blown right past all of them. Now Savos was going to get up and just leave Marcus here alone on this couch; he was going to-- But Savos was simply getting a pillow. He resettled Marcus' weight on his lap, so that he could more comfortably rest his head.

"This is a distressing place for certain, but you have no need to fear it. I will see that you get home." Savos' hand went back to Marcus' hair. After some time Marcus drifted. He was nearly asleep.

“Sorry I tried to steal your books,” his words came out half-muffled against Savos' shirt.

“You're sorry I caught you, then? I find I'm not." He paused. "That is a terrible thing to say, isn't it."

"Mmm. I had all your compulsion spells broken by the first week." Marcus opened his eyes. "The camera shock spell box was trickier, but honestly I just wanted to figure out how to beat it. Sorry." He smiled up at Savos, pouring all of his charm into it, until the Arch-Mage's expression softened. "Really I just wanted to see what we would be doing next. Otherwise I could have just walked away in Blacklight, or Wayrest, or wherever. You wouldn't have found me again." He paused. "I really do need those books. You remember, what I told you. About the dragons."

Savos was laughing, silently; just enough for Marcus to feel it. His hand caressed the back of Marcus' head; his neck, his shoulders. "I will get you whatever books you think needful. Any books that you desire, even if I have to find a way to convince Shibari to seek them through the many worlds."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course we have Big Fucking Guns. It's Shadowrun.
> 
> Wait. Did any of you really think that I was going to give that lunatic Marcus a gun?
> 
> Didn't think so.


	10. Knowledge [Scavenged Punk ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The third trial of the Dweller at the Threshold is knowledge: What do you know? What don't you know. And how do you use that to outwit your adversary, if you can...

_Rhys tried to stifle his own laughter, and failed. He raised his hands to mimic Duncan's exasperated expression when they'd opened the door to the room. "So, I guess what I'm wondering is why you stopped being angry and started thinking it was so damn funny." He laughed. "I'm sorry I got a bit-- ha!" He jumped a little as Duncan tweaked him. "Upset. I was so worried he'd broken some of the medical equipment, but he didn't. I saw he even left a little present for Patrice."_

_Duncan's fingers had retreated to Rhys' thigh. He began rubbing there, instead. "Me? Oh, I calmed down about the time I realized it was all your fault." He grinned at Artrí, who was crouched on the far side of the room, in the only corner that could possibly accommodate a bear. "You knew the whole time that the kid was running around tearing up shit like MacGyver, and you let it go just because you wanted to see what would happen next."_

_Rhys rolled up onto his side. "Maybe I should have let them go, just to see what they could do if they got out to one of the parks. I was actually pretty curious about that."_

_"I looked over all the gear that they got put together. They didn't do too poor a job getting the things that they might need together." He yawned. "I bet a trip to the camping store would have cost less, though."_

_"I see. Did it take a lot for the hotel staff to get us moved over?" _

_"Some," Duncan admitted. "More than I wanted to spend this month for sure, but I wanted to make sure the hotel's security couldn't track us. We can still make rent."_

_The two of them lay still for a time, just breathing into each other. The cheap mattress was bowing considerable in the center, but neither wanted to move._

_"The kid is looking a lot brighter since yesterday. He's even moving around better. Did you do more healing on him?"_

_"I noticed," said Rhys. "And no, I never got the chance to. Did you see just now, how he wouldn't let me touch that bruise? Savos said he didn't do any healing on him. So-- he must have done all that himself."_

_"Jesus, after what he did with just his fingernails and a tactical knife, I'm afraid to see what that kid could do with a screwdriver. Let alone magic."_

_"That reminds me, I should ward this new place, just in case. No sense advertising unauthorized magic."_

_Duncan made a noise of agreement. He was a bit concerned about that._

_"Savos Aren was not lying to us," said Rys quietly. "Everything he said to us was the truth. We came into this making some assumptions, and I didn't listen, even though I should have asked a lot more questions, because we definitely got the wrong impression about what was going on. So now I really feel like shit."_

_Duncan patted him. "Yeah, but when's the last time someone who made statements like that was actually telling the truth? Don't worry about it. I talked to Savos about it. He says he might have been tempted to do the same thing. And he's been pretty relaxed with you since then. So do you really think he's still holding a grudge?"_

_"That kid sure does," said Rhys. "He won't even look at me. Have you noticed?"_

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"How are you doing on making your letters?”

Marcus made a noise of disgruntlement. With little else to do, he was once more practicing his Dunmeris script. 

Marcus was so bored. He and Savos had sat together and then Marcus had gone to the bedroom and napped, so he wasn't tired anymore. He had figured out all of the buttons on the trid. Since Duncan had told him that nothing trid displayed was real, trid held no more interest for him. He'd sampled the music, and didn't like any of it. And Duncan had taken his goggles with him.

Marcus had used the coughing device several times over. He had opened all of the connecting doors to the rooms in the suite, so that he could pace around in bigger loops. There were arm and hand exercises that Rhys had left for him to do, and Marcus not only did those, he made a few more up to experiment with. He had sketched at a few things and given up; and composed new music until Savos had told him to stop. He had tried to get Savos to investigate the phenomenon of the magickal bear-creature that was watching them; but Savos had declined.

"What are they doing that's taking so long?" Marcus complained.

“Shopping, they said.” The Arch-Mage lifted his gaze from the garish pamphlet he was examining. He was taking notes in the margins, and comparing it to another map. 

Marcus came over to him. "What are you looking at?"

"This little brochure is a transit map," Savos told him. "MTR. Another kind of carriage. See, the areas here which I shaded? Those designate park land. If we can get to open land, we can manage to scry a little." He gave a little shrug. "If you like. Rhys already said he would take us out to where we could try."

"Do you trust what Rhys says?" asked Marcus.

"I don't know," mused Savos Aren. "I find myself to not be a very trusting person, these days. Then again, I'm not certain we have a choice. You saw how poorly we fared on our own."

Marcus nodded. "We didn't have the right equipment," he agreed. "And we didn't know the dangers."

"It isn't just the wildlife," said Savos. "There are many magical hazards. And the city's plagued by reavers." He shrugged. "I've heard our hosts talk."

"Have you?" Marcus questioned. 

The Arch-Mage raised a brow at Marcus' intonation. 

Really? Savos had not even noticed? 

"They're criminals," Marcus said, flatly. "Shadowrunners. Don't you pay attention to what's going on?"

Several more days of inescapable trid at Duncan's insistence had expanded Savos' and Marcus' vocabularies. They had learned about shadowrunners, and gangs; gang bosses, and triads, and corporations, and dragons. The dragons had given Marcus serious pause. Duncan had let Marcus borrow his goggles, to look out the window at the dancing advertisement-for-services maintained by the prostitute and the warning tags put up by the gangers; Duncan had been able to tell Marcus what each one of those warning tags meant.

"I never would have suspected something like that about our hosts." For someone still nursing his bruises, Savos looked remarkably offended on their behalf.

"Do you know if guest-right exists here?" asked Marcus. "Did either of those two give any guarantees? What consequences are there for those who mistreat guests? Does the local jarl... ah... corporation... whatever-it-is here... do they even care?"

The orks had not made any promises, and Savos did not know. He continued to make excuses. Saying that he was a good judge of character, all that nonsense.

"Ever stop to think I might know some shit you don't?" Marcus was looking out the window, down at the street below. "Come here and tell me what you see."

The Arch-Mage sighed in disappointment: language. He got to his feet. 

"Sooo," said Marcus. "What're we dealing with? What are you looking at down there?"

Savos said: "Children playing. A lady on her way to go somewhere, waiting for a ride." He looked down the way. "A couple of friends talking through a car window."

"Keep watching."

Savos Aren said: "The lady seems to be nearsighted? She can't seem to figure out which car is coming to get her." She'd now attempted to flag down three or four of them. "And the man over there on the sidewalk seems to know a lot of people." A couple of cars, by now, had pulled up to him and driven off.

"Think sugar," Marcus finally suggested.

"Oh, he's like a skooma seller?" 

"Mhm. Watch those kids. They're lookouts." Sure enough, there was some running and calling back and forth. A door opened; the seller stepped within, and it shut. A couple seconds later, one of those marked guard-cars drifted by, but there was nothing to see but kids half-heartedly tossing a ball back and forth. The lady had moved to crouch behind a car parked in the alley.

"Whore," said Marcus. "Didn't want to get hassled, so she got out of sight." He winced. "I feel sorry for her, she's in kind of a bad way. See how she holds her arms? Coming down, and sick with it. Someone's running her, or she's desperate to get the next hit. Probably both." 

He watched for a little longer. "I wouldn't walk down that street-- Oh, hey, weapon. Tall kid, red shirt, at the front of his waist under his shirt. See how he keeps putting his hand on it? So maybe they rob people. Or could be it's just that he's displaying they've got protection." 

Marcus pointed to the eight-foot fence that surrounded the inn's property; it was topped with rolls of wire that glimmered with razor-sharp edges under the weak sun. A uniformed guard stood duty at its front gate, and another was stationed in a booth behind him. Garbage had mounded up along the outside periphery of the fence, suggesting that no one wanted to linger outside its bounds for long. "This is not a good neighborhood. So if you want to go outside to do some magickal work then yeah, we're going to have to get pretty far out of this area." 

The Arch-Mage twisted the little stick to close the blinds. "I still don't believe your perceptions are accurate in regards to our hosts."

"They aren't our hosts. We're not their guests. We're just some valuable property they happened to acquire." Marcus rubbed at the thick red scars on his left arm, wincing. "Still think they went out buying? Because they might be out selling." 

Savos was frowning at him.

More gently, Marcus said, "There's a fair chance, that if they have a boss, they don't have a choice. People who work for themselves don't keep bolting off in a panic every time they get summonsed. Every time that commlink goes off, Duncan sure does. So I think we should be a bit more concerned about how we are getting out of here. Soon."

Savos acknowledged this was a fair point. He reiterated his concerns about street bandits.

"Men shouldn't be a problem," said Marcus. "I can handle men." He held Savos' gaze until the Arch-Mage nodded. 

It would be nice to know more about the creatures and hostile magicka." Marcus rubbed his face. "Do you think we can get through this... transit system...without being stopped by guardsmen again?"

"Perhaps," returned Savos Aren, just a bit snippy. "Do you happen to find yourself able to comply with instructions?"

Marcus sighed through his nose. "Sure," he said. "Yeah. Want me to see if there's anything useful here? I'd hate to get someplace and be doing good work and then get crapped out by bad water." He looked down at his fingers, and said: "Damn. I keep forgetting about these. Do you think...?"

"It's not enough gold to be worthwhile," said Savos. And they could smell the ocean from here; pearls weren't going to be worth much.

Glumly, Marcus sat down with his new knife to scrape his beautiful fingernail-art away. He had to interrupt Savos Aren to get assistance with his right hand; his still-clumsy left couldn't hold the knife steady and he was concerned he might nip a fingertip off. When he was done Marcus went to go look in one of the innumerable mirrors. What he would do to take a few of these back to Winterhold. 

"Hair?" he wondered, making a face, because it was sadly overgrown.

"Leave it for the moment," counseled the Arch-Mage. "Just see what you can find around here that we can use." He paused. "A large amount of thread or cord would be particularly helpful. So would--" He glanced around. "Stiff wire, maybe. Or bent nails, if we can find some large ones."

Within a few minutes, Marcus had gone through all their trash and pulled out anything useful; all of that was now sitting on the bathroom counter. He’d found some more of those flimsy bags under the counter and packed up the rest of it. The magickal bear in the corner sat up and took an interest when Marcus opened the door; but when it saw he was merely putting trash and dirty dishes out in the hallway, it relaxed, as if it too had found this place overly redolent.

“I dunno what this stuff is that everything’s made of here,” Marcus complained. “More useless than that moonstone the elves left behind.”

“Plastic. All of it’s made from dead animal corpses, under the weight of rocks and aeons. It compresses down into a black exudate, which these people smith into all these various items.”

Marcus made a noise of disgust. Yuck.

“Not animals as we know them,” Savos explained. “Pond scum, slime molds and so on. Nothing that you might want to pet.” Ah. It was made from disgusting animals. That didn't make it any better. Marcus continued to scout around.

The blades that covered over the windows had looked promising, but they were far too flimsy for any real use, including the use they were meant for. But-- "Cord," Marcus announced. "Kind of a lot of it, if I can get it loose." 

"Any amount is good," said the Arch-Mage. "The more the better." He continued to work on mathemagickal equations. "Three transits," he muttered. "Something's off."

“Plenty more wire,” said Marcus. He’d found a whole bunch of it on the bottom side of the bed, though it hadn't been too much fun to get loose. “Say, these water bottles seem really flimsy to me.” He squeezed at one and it crumpled. "Are you sure about these?"

“They’ll still work,” said Savos Aren. “The water from the sink taps is clean to drink. We should probably take what we can. Just rinse them out well.”

“All right,” Marcus said, after a couple more hours of work. “I think I’ve got a few things ready to go.”

Savos Aren looked over the pile of items Marcus had collected.

“We still need clothes that fit us and local money,” Marcus observed. “We can steal all that on the way out.” 

"Money will be difficult," Savos warned. "It's mostly a magickal construct, here. They track it via commlink."

"Nah," said Marcus. "Someone came around the other night while you were sleeping, and the orks handed over a couple of these little sticks to them. And they've got paper cash; I've seen it. We can figure it out." He rubbed at his chin, where the stubble was coming in, thickly. "We're gonna have to rob someone, probably," he said, more somberly. "I hate doing that. I'd rather lift it from a room here, but--" They would need to move quickly, to stay ahead of where the orks would be searching.

"Show me what we've got," Savos directed.

“Oh, yeah. Food, a garotte, a good knife, a couple of, uh, extra knives. Cord and all the smaller string I could get. I made a few firestarters-- no sense wasting magicka--plenty of grease worked into those. Lockpicks and fishhooks; the extra wire that you wanted. Waterproof bedding. And water. Lots of bottles of drinking water. Did you find a good route?”

The Arch-Mage showed him the transit map.

“If we can get people to leave us alone long enough to get to here--” Marcus tapped a large shaded area.

“Once we are on open ground we stand a much better chance of finding a magickal node that is not as contaminated by this horrid city,” said Savos. “You know, I have a hard time even in Solitude?”

“Huh,” said Marcus.

“I didn’t grow up in a city, or even a village,” Savos Aren told him. “It was on a farm in the middle of nowhere. And I’ve been out at Winterhold since well before the Great Collapse. You know what the magicka feels like there-- I’m afraid I’ve gotten rather lazy over the years. It's been decades since I've done any searching through leys.”

”Good thing I'm better at it, then. Think maybe we can keep this? I don’t want to if it has to go back to the healer lady. And what is it? It’s kind of useful.”

“It’s a roll of tape,” said Savos. “Those are commonly available; she won’t be looking for it again." He was looking at his shoes. "Do you know how to sew anything?” 

“Kinda,” said Marcus. “I can mend a few things. I sure can't make pants or fix shoes.” He tossed the tape to Savos and eyed Duncan’s gun-cleaning kit with longing.

“Why not that?” asked Savos, indicating it.

“Duncan told me if I touched his shit he would break all my fingers,” said Marcus. “Guess he knows a thief when he sees one. I’d love one of those flexible metal thingies, but..." Marcus shrugged. He’d settle for the nylon bags; they were strewn throughout the place, and Duncan hadn’t seemed to care too much about those. He looked over the medical equipment, frowning. “Like to take that lightweight metal pole, too. It'd make a good spear or tent-pole” he said. “But the lady who brought it said she really needed it back.”

Since she’d been nice enough to lend the items that had saved Marcus’ life, he thought he'd return the favor by not breaking or taking any of them. It was a pity. But Marcus had rules. He hadn't touched Duncan's property, and he'd left most of Rhys' intact. But these rooms were merely rented; and Marcus could tell from their behavior towards the furniture that the orks didn’t give two shits about this place. So Marcus had no qualms about stripping it down for useful parts.

“They’re not going to be so happy about the shower curtains,” Savos predicted.

“Tough. We can’t risk getting rained on like that again. That alone could kill us.” Marcus brooded. “At least we'll have plenty to eat.” If there was one thing at which this world excelled, it was packaging up dried food so that it would keep for eternity. Tasted like it, too.

“Hm,” Marcus said. “My boots seem all right. Your shoes?” His boots were serviceable, and after much rinsing and scrubbing and dabbing with towels, almost clean. Although Marcus would need new socks. His own had gone to rags.

“Maybe still usable,” said Savos Aren. “We should at least take their shirts and socks.” 

Marcus hesitated over this. He didn't want to. On the other hand, he couldn't go anywhere as he was.

"Let's just take what we need for the moment" he said. "Anyways, we can steal stuff later to fit us." The heels of the socks were so far up Marcus’ ankles that it was ludicrous, but he could still get his boots on. More of the tape went to wrapping Savos’ poor abused footwear back together. 

"What do you think?" Marcus asked. "Because I feel really stupid." The neckline of Rhys' shirt hung down well below his shoulders and its hem was at his knees. He had no nope of trying to refit pants or smallclothes, so he wore none.

The Arch-Mage winced. "Just-- try not to lift up your arms very much," he said. "I suppose it presents slightly less of a risk of us being arrested immediately."

After he got everything packed up, Marcus made an Altmeri paper-flower from one of the Arch-Mage’s discarded pages, and taped it to the pile of medical equipment. He was acutely conscious that the lady had helped him without any hope of recompense. 

The Arch-Mage continued to work on a new set of calculations, trying to finish up as swiftly as he could.

Marcus had already tried to casually saunter into the hallway, but the magickal bear followed him all the way down to the machine that spat ice. When he came back in, Marcus shook his head, unhappily. The Arch-Mage resigned himself to building another drink: water with ice. Marcus amused himself by tossing a few cubes into the vicinity of the far corner, where they promptly vanished, as the bear snapped them out of mid-air.

"Told you," he said to Savos, a bit smugly. He tried once again to communicate with the bear, but it just looked at him.

"What is its physical appearance?" Savos Aren finally wanted to know. 

"Like an ice bear, only smaller," said Marcus. "And it's brown. A bear's a bear."

"Rhys is likely to dispel it once he comes in," predicted the Arch-Mage.

"Or he might not," said Marcus. "So then we'd have to deal with two orks plus this creature. Or two orks and their friends, and this creature." He threw another cube. "So, got any other plans?"

"I can make a couple of set-spells," said Savos, resigned. "I hope you have enough magicka left to prime them and cast them." He sniffed. "Blinding spell, to start with." 

Marcus agreed. He had done too good a job rifling the hotel suite. There was no way he and Savos could conceal the damage, and anyways he was pretty sure that Duncan would find any attempt that Marcus could make at a cache.

\---------

Marcus raised his head. “It’s gone,” he reported. 

"Mm?"

“That bear just picked up and left. So do you want to try to hide this stuff and wait? Or-- do we take the chance and go now?”

The Arch-Mage stacked all of his papers together and tucked them into the bundle. "Now," he said, decisively.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because what is the point, really, of having Marcus in a hotel room if he doesn't get to trash the place?
> 
> At least Marcus didn't permanently break the toilet.
> 
> And he did get to show that know-it-all Savos Aren that there are some things you've just got to learn from experience.


	11. Spirits [Bitch Slap]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next trial of the Dweller at the Threshold has to do with spirits. In Shadowrun, if you're going to play with magic, you'd better be able to work with spirits!
> 
> Although, as usual, Marcus has no trouble making a new friend.

_Duncan couldn't stop chuckling. He wanted to; Rhys had been looking pretty upset, but the laughter just kept welling up out of him until he had to shove his face in the pillow. "Your face--"_

_"I do not want to talk about it." Rhys flopped down next to him, with emphasis, and groaned. "This is supposed to be a king bed, they said?" He nudged Duncan's thigh with a knee. "Could you--"_

_"Told you it would be a bad idea to force open that door." Duncan's voice was somewhat muffled by the pillow. "At least you know the kid's feeling better." He managed to scoot over half an inch. Any further and his leg would be hanging over the side. "Maybe you're right. We would be a lot more comfortable at home. But aren't you worried about what you saw those spirits doing out in the park? What about that spirit beast you thought you saw?"_

_Rhys grunted. He didn't want to revisit that topic, either. "Nothing hostile. There were a few present. They just seemed to be taking an interest in our visitors. And I'm still not sure what quite what it was I saw, following us. Looked familiar, though." He yawned. "Not dangerous."_

_"Now that you've seen this anchor, what are you thinking? Are these guys for real, or are they just telling us stories?" Duncan laid his head back down. It was too warm in here, but he didn't want Rhys to move._

_"It seems for real." Rhys hitched himself up a bit to lie across Duncan's back, arm over his back. He traced the line of Duncan's arm, over the bumps and ripples there. Sweat had instantly sprung up between them, but Duncan didn't care. He shoved a little bit more, moving the two of them over; if they were going to lie stacked like this, his leg could at least be on the bed. "That mage is a pretty good talker."_

_"This is true, but everything that Savos had told me so far has been borne out," said Rhys. "I'd like to see more. Portaling is actual physical travel. Did you catch that?"_

_"Not really." Duncan sighed, as Rhys' fingers began to work. "You can keep on with that."_

_"I got really intrigued when I saw how closely Savos was modeling wormhole theory. Can you imagine, coming up with astrophysics on some metaplane that doesn't even have industrialization? As far as I've been able to discern, it isn't any more magical to portal between metaplanes than it is to use an elevator. There's no ritual to perform or gatekeeper to pass. You're not leaving your body; it goes with you, so there isn't any need for wards. And while a mage needs to be present to activate the portal; there's no reason why portal travelers should need to be Awakened." He paused. "Using a portal is so trivial that Savos made one to give himself a shortcut downstairs to the college library. He said the stairs are cold." _

_ Duncan lifted his head a little. He didn't want to step all over Rhys' enthusiasm, but--"So explain to me why these portals aren't fucking everywhere." _

_"Building portals is both highly technical and very dangerous, so it's a closely guarded secret." Rhys paused. "Savos said they're common on some worlds; almost non-existent on others. I got the distinct feeling that portals might actually be illegal, where he comes from."_

_Duncan snickered. "Of course they are." He sighed, as the tension began to leave his shoulders, under Rhys' hand. "You sure you're not just hearing what you want to hear?" _

_"I don't know." Rhys stopped, his hand coming to a rest on Duncan's back, just there by his shoulderblade. "All I can do is wait and see. Savos said it's possible that he might be able to teach me enough that I could learn to build my own portals. To any metaplane."_

_Rhys was serious._

_All amusement faded. For long moments, Duncan remained perfectly still, breathing through the small tunnel made by his arms, holding the pillow. Rhys remained present, warm arm draped over him, fingers splayed right over the too-fast beating of Duncan's heart. Waiting for a response._

_"Yeah. I agree." Muffled by the pillow, Duncan's voice sounded odd to himself; strangled. "We should have you keep working on it."_

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They had not gotten very far down the hall, when they heard voices. 

The orks.

Marcus and Savos crouched behind a linen cart that was half-blocking the hallway. Marcus clicked the set-spell. It wouldn't fool the shaman long, but it might fool him long enough. They waited, tense.

“What the fuck happened in this room?”

Rhys, right on Duncan's heels, made a sound of dismay.

Marcus tapped Savos. The two of them crept out of their hiding spot and began to work their slow way towards the glass doors of the exit.

They got almost all the way out onto the pavement when--

\-------

Marcus was holding an icebag to the side of his head. “Anyways I didn’t touch _your_ stuff-- I even packed it," he said sullenly. "So what’s your problem?” 

Well, actually, he was wearing Rhys' t-shirt and a pair of Rhys' socks; but necessities hardly counted. Everything else of Rhys' was untouched. Rhys was still opening drawers, looking in the small refrigerator, demanding to know what Marcus had done with the coffee maker; with the curtain rings; with the bathroom sink.

Duncan had gotten over his initial explosion and was now sitting with the rest of them, watching Rhys storm around. He leaned down to offer Marcus sage counsel: “Shut up.” 

The bear nudged Marcus, in concurrence and apology. It had decided to join the party by making itself fully visible to everyone, making the small space feel even more confined.

Savos Aren said, thoughtfully: "I had no idea that spirits could be so active here."

Marcus started to complain again, about his face. The bear looked smug. Duncan, still watching Rhys closely, hissed for silence.

Fine. Marcus put the icebag on his knees, pressing his head down on it. This was going to be a fun bruise; his skin was still tingling. He coughed again, in the hopes of gleaning residual sympathy. Nope. The magickal bear did not seem inclined to help Marcus find a node. Perhaps it felt that it had not administered too stern a punishment. Well, Marcus thought ruefully, he still HAD a face. He had the distinct impression that this could have gone another way.

“Shit,” Marcus said, rubbing at his lips. “If I can't heal this, I'm not gonna be able to work for a month.” 

“I thought you said you were a relic collector?” Duncan's ears were too good.

"Mm. Sort of a side thing. I’m not real good at it. And my left arm's still pretty messed up, so...” He tried to lift it, and let it drop, wincing. "Anyways," he went on. "I guess you could say I'm in hospitality." He pressed down on the bag to re-arrange the ice cubes for better comfort. "A whore," he clarified, in case Duncan didn't get it. "And I'm not very good at that, either."

Duncan prodded Savos Aren with a toe. “That so, mage?”

Marcus scoffed. “Him? He wouldn't know."

Duncan picked Marcus up by his forelock and the scruff of his neck and shoved him right up against the wall, ranting and complaining about how the orks had been lied to, and--

Rhys had to come over and prise Marcus out of his grip.

“Please,” said Savos Aren. “I told you. It’s the language difficulty. The translation spell cannot be expected to catch every nuance-- quite often he just does not understand. What is the problem this time?”

\---------

“The first time I left him alone by himself, my quarters looked just like this mess when I returned,” the Arch-Mage said, gesturing at the torn up sofa and the disassembled blinds. “I kept finding little weapons that he'd crafted and stashed around the place. For the first few days after that, if I was gone from my rooms or asleep I kept him locked into the bathing-room or stationed right beside me. It was that or remove every single item from my rooms.” Savos looked at crumbled bits of wall and ceiling tiles. “At least my chamber was made from fitted stone.”

“Yeah,” sulked Marcus, when directly asked. He was rubbing his scalp, along the tender spots where his hair had been yanked at. “He’s a light sleeper. So that’s the rule, if he’s in bed, I’m in bed. Otherwise I fool around with stuff and get in trouble.” At the next question, he snorted: "Are you kidding me? How many times do I need to tell you that we weren't doing that? Sure be nice if he'd let me; I bet I'd actually sleep." Marcus let his smile briefly display his teeth. "I know he would."

When seriously pressed, Marcus had dug around in his improvised wilderness kit and yielded up the toilet-chain. It had looked useful to have, and it was such a little thing. Who knew it was so important? 

He and Savos then witnessed another truism across the worlds: bribing the service staff will get you everything. Some sort of brief exchange; a smiling desk clerk and cleaning-maid, and the four of them were installed in Room 304, where they had been since their arrival, as the records would so attest. The four of them had nothing to do with the must-have-been-addicts who had stripped Room 301, just across the hall.

\---------

“Here. Pants. Stop bitching.”

Marcus unfolded the garment and held it up, dubious. “Oh hey, it has pockets.” Pockets that fastened down, even, so things wouldn’t fall out. And an integrated belt that clipped together, and buttons, so the legs could be rolled up to one's calves or knees; what was this zipper over here for...

“Yeah, yeah, very stylish pants.” Duncan scowled down at him.

Wait, these weren't?

Duncan tossed the bag at him and it bounced lightly off Marcus' chest and onto the floor. Marcus investigated. A dark-colored shirt, in a size that would actually fit him; socks; and even blessedly-recognizable smallclothes.

“Oh-- thanks.” Marcus immediately got up and stripped off his improvised garb to dress. “I feel like a person again.” He hummed in pure happiness; he loved presents. When Duncan said something else to him, Marcus looked up and smiled.

Duncan exhaled briefly through his nostrils and went out. 

\---------

Now the attitude of the orks towards Markus had changed. He was no longer their friend. They were no longer watching out for him. He had cost them too much money. Savos Aren, who had not actually lied to them, and who was now providing Rhys with magickal instruction, was being regarded with a more friendly respect. At least they allowed Savos to stay in Marcus’ room now (to keep an eye on him, Duncan had said), which resolved the bed situation. Savos and Marcus could communicate and the orks could have private time to themselves. Which, in Marcus' professional opinion, they sorely needed. Everyone would be much less grumpy now, Marcus hoped. 

His face hurt. His hair hurt. Well. Maybe he could do something about this ridiculous hair.

\---------

“No.” Duncan was clearly audible through the flimsy door to the central room. “I can't believe you're even suggesting this. No way. Not in the apartment.” A pause. "Jesus, did you see what he did to my clippers?"

“I’m tired of having to go back and forth to get all my reference materials. Shielding this place properly is going to be a pain in the ass. And this greymarket credstick's not going to be good much longer. You could just threaten him, because that seemed to work earlier. He did leave all of your things alone, except for the clippers, and that was my fault. I told him he could use them."

Marcus rolled over and put his arms around the Arch-Mage’s waist. “I thought we were leaving,” he murmured, close to one long ear.

“No. Rhys and Duncan and myself have sorted out a deal," said Savos. "No one is getting sold to anyone--" He cleared his throat. "That was never on the table to begin with. I don't know where you get these ideas."

Marcus sighed, aggrieved. 

Savos patted him: "The two of them will not discuss who were are and what we can do; and they'll continue to provide support while I work on building a new portal for the two of us to reach home. Oh, and Rhys promised me he would show me some of the work he does with plants." Primly, he flicked an endangered ear-tip out of Marcus' reach. "I thought I might glean some insights that could be helpful to Colette and Evrard in the Lustratorium." 

"What did you say you'd give them in return?"

Another uncomfortable cough: "Rhys did say that he and Duncan do a lot of dangerous work, for even more dangerous people. It can be anticipated that at some point, they might need to make a quick exit. So, in return for all of their assistance, I said I would design Rhys a few set-spells, and ah-- "

Marcus cringed. "Oh, gods. You didn't."

_What were you doing making promises? Never show them all you got. Always hold something back to sweeten the deal. Learn to fucking think._

Savos Aren said: "Unless you have some useful suggestions to make, I don't have anything else to offer. I promised Rhys that I would teach him everything that I know-- assuming that he is capable of learning--about the process of crafting a portal. You will note that I have not yet offered to give him a portal, though I may, dependent on further study. But I am not enthused about the prospect of leaving open a permanent connection between our realm and this one; in any event, I never promise anything that I might not be able to deliver."

Marcus sat up. "You mean you think we're stuck here?!" 

"Lie back down," coaxed Savos. "I'm certain that things will turn out just fine." 

But Marcus could hear the tension in the Arch-Mage's voice; Savos had not intended to make that little slip. 

Marcus reached out with his magicka-sense for ground; because ground was comfort. Not here. Ground here was as appealing as scum-covered water. His magicka-sense flinched back at the touch of it.

One slender hand continued to grip his, tightly. Eventually the Arch-Mage's hand fell loose. He slept.

Marcus did not. He had steeled himself to submerge back down into the murkiness of ground. Without the guidance of the bear spirit-beast, Marcus couldn’t find the node again. He kept getting lost in the endless twisting maze of faint ley-lines. Ground sucked at his feet like a noisome marsh, greasily brown-and-grey. Pallid swollen corpses floated by, too bloated to identify. Marcus prayed he would find nothing worse, because he still didn't even have enough magicka to heal the bruise on his face. It throbbed; as if to remind him that in this place, Marcus had no defenses at all.

\---------

"Wooh. You guys picked a hell of a neighborhood to drop into."

Marcus was ranging back and forth, trying to listen; trying to sense: "Is that way north? North of here," he said. "I think."

Rhys spent a couple of seconds in silent communication and then agreed. "Back to the car," he said.

"It's not so far," Marcus protested. "We couldn't just walk?"

"In." Duncan gave Marcus a little shove, for emphasis. Oh, there were people watching from those windows. Right.

"So, just what do these portals do, again?" Rhys circled the area, cautiously. There wasn't anything visibly remarkable about the transit site. It was just sitting there on a narrow street, on the edge of the blighted area.

"Portals are a variety of set-spell," said the Arch-Mage. "The very most dangerous variety of set-spell, even when compared to a summoning-staff. Using a portal requires a significant amount of magicka to trigger its set-spell, but once that magickal threshold is crossed, if one is standing on the transit site, a portal between metaplanes opens. There is no need to propitiate spirits or negotiate with other entities. It is an instantaneous transfer. If all goes well, the involved parties arrive at the previously-set destination site. If something goes awry--" Savos Aren spread his hands, to indicate bursting into a million tiny pieces. "There is also the possibility that another magicka-using entity could discover your portal and borrow it for its own purposes," Savos added. "Or even lurk nearby, waiting. So generally we do not put portal sites in our homes."

Except for Savos Aren, who kept a portal site next to his bed. Savos also kept explosive soul gem fragments in an unlabelled jar on his bookshelf; a box full of Heart Stones by his door; and a realm-traveling Daedra that was currently pretending to be a houseplant. He had also been keeping Marcus. Savos was crazy.

"Something's wrong," said Marcus. "Are we sure this portal's still working? "

Rhys' sour expression meant that he was now thinking that Savos Aren had been telling stories.

"So, you're the one who wanted more bona fides," the Arch-Mage said to Rhys. "Would you like for us to activate this portal so that you can see what it looks like for yourself?"

"That portal looks lop-sided to me," said Marcus. "I don't even want to touch it." 

Savos gestured at him: do it. Marcus complied.

"So are you going to try this portal thing out, or what? What happens if you jump into it?" Duncan had come over to look. He seemed unimpressed.

"Spirits, I wouldn't." Rhys had evidently invoked his own magickal sight, and he did not like what he was looking at.

Savos Aren turned to Marcus: "What do you think?"

"Is it supposed to spit magicka like that?" Marcus hesitated. He began to walk around the portal site, keeping a careful distance. 

When he returned--"Yes, I'm quite certain Marcus activated the site correctly," Savos was saying, irritated. "My thinking from the beginning is that it would be a waste of time and magicka for us to try to re-activate this portal. Its anchor is fraying and it's become dangerously unstable." He looked to Rhys. "What would you like for us to do? Shall we attempt to conduct further tests?"

Marcus' first suggestion was immediately vetoed by Rhys. "I don't want to do this to any living creature." Not even rats.

Duncan had gone to the car to retrieve their food trash, and scouted around for a bit. "Here."

"Let's begin with a little theory," said Savos. "A successful transition to another plane must involve a sapient being, one who is capable of altering the aetherial currents. Since we are not willing to risk ourselves in this little endeavor; we can expect that any inanimate object we toss into this portal should be kicked right back out."

"Huh," said Marcus. Three of the bags of trash they had thrown into the site had vanished; only to reappear at some velocity a couple of moments later, all as expected. The fourth bag had burst outward into a huge cloud of fragmented debris.

Savos Aren was brushing off his shirt. "And that rather effectively demonstrates the risks of attempting a transit through an unstable portal." He looked shaken. "Shut it down."

"We're not going to dismantle it entirely?" Marcus questioned, once he was certain that the two orks were absorbed in their little discussion over by the car.

Savos winced. "Let's not. We should probably educate ourselves a bit more more about the parameters of the magickal environment here, before we do anything more permanent."

Well, that was hardly a vote of confidence.

"They still think we're con artists," Marcus said, glumly.

"Oh, probably," Savos agreed. "We'll see what we can do with set-spells in the interim to perhaps change their mind on that, shall we?"

\---------

“Great. Another shopping list." Duncan did not look happy. Hadn't the two of them cost the orks enough?

Savos Aren shrugged. “Magicka use appears to be more difficult here on this metaplane than at our home,” he said. “Establishing a physical guide for the concatenated lattice structure will be exceedingly useful. In fact, this is how one learns to create portals-- no one wants to take any chances with a student mis-remembering the appropriate geometrical structure; and then there you are with no stable anchor.” He gestured. “One could end up anywhere.”

“Is that what happened to us?” asked Marcus. He got a look.

“Having one’s concentration disrupted can have exceedingly dire consequences,” said the Arch-Mage, forbiddingly. “That goes for any sort of magicka. And yes, I should have noticed before we entered it that the transit site was not well-anchored.” He lowered his voice a little. "Or paid more attention to where we were going."

“So-- once you’ve made this anchor. What then?” Rhys held out his hand for the list. Duncan wasn't finished reading it yet, Marcus could tell. Still, Duncan handed it right over.

“Once preparations are complete, we root the transit site to the destination anchor; and the destination site to the transit anchor, for the greatest stability,” said the Arch-Mage. “I’ve been thinking about that. The worlds move and touch in different places, as you know, and it’s generally easiest to establish the shortest route possible to the nearest metaplane. Which means you would need to make a series of portal jumps to get home. But there’s also a strong argument for linking back to your own home metaplane: it is your own strongest tie; and of course you will not be unpleasantly surprised--" Savos fell silent. 

Unpleasantly surprised by ending up in a shithole like this, Savos meant. 

Rhys had heard that, all right. He was scowling over the list now.

“Are any of those items particularly expensive?" Savos asked. "I can put together a few more set-spells for you, if you like.”

“It’s fine,” said Duncan, just as Rhys came up with another request. Set-spells were damned useful. All of the hard work and concentration and most of the magicka gets built into them ahead of time; and they required only a minimal amount of magicka to trigger. The Arch-Mage liked to make his out of folded paper, so they were easy to carry about.

“Did you understand any of what I was saying?” Savos Aren asked Marcus.

“Yeah." Marcus was a touch offended. He had been listening. "You want to build an actual physical structure so that it can be a reminder of how to visualize all of the lines of magicka in your mind. Because it's hard to swim with one hand while juggling with the other. I get it." Marcus went back to fiddling with one of his pocket clasps. "So when are we going to go do this?"

\---------

The guardsman yowled some hostile singsong language right in Marcus' face, sounding just like an entire caravan of angry Khajiit. He motioned. Another guardsman spoke up in the language Marcus knew, but he could not decipher what she was saying through her thick accent.

“Please? Could you say that again?" Marcus held hands palm up, striving to be cooperative.

It had turned out that Marcus couldn't lean on his left hand or count on it for knot-tying, which made him unable to assist with the crafting of the portal anchor. So he'd found something else to do. There wasn't much to scavenge. The orks seemed to think this little park was a proper wilderness; and indeed it was violently green, but-- Marcus shook his head. There were signs of human habitation everywhere, if one looked. Marcus had tucked a piece of a broken necklace with a couple of interesting-looking beads into his pocket, but he had found nothing else of interest. Just more trash.

The lady guardsman kept repeating one word, until Marcus finally got it: commlink. They wanted to see his commlink.

Obligingly, Marcus handed over the black plastic rectangle. The guards poked at it for a time.

“Something’s wrong with it,” Marcus supplied, to be helpful. "I haven't been able to turn it on since I got here."

The guardsmen decided that they would keep it.

Now they wanted to know: what was Marcus doing out here in the park by himself?

“Oh,” he said. “There was nothing for me to do back at camp except sit around, so I was just picking up garbage.” He showed them the half-full bag. “Look at all this. Animals have more sense than this. How do these people live?”

One of the guards made a noise of approval.The others remained suspicious.

What had happened to Marcus' face?

“I ran into a bear,” Marcus said, cheerfully, and laughed at their reaction. “Car wreck. I’m okay. Just a little stiff and sore. My arm got kind of messed up, too.” He pulled up his short sleeve to show off mottled bruising and thick red scars.

More questions, so Marcus clarified: No, no, he and his friends did not live out here. Yuck! Who would live out here? No, they were just out here to... oh, hell. Marcus could not think of what to say. He had been warned: do not talk about magicka, ever. And there were too many other conversational pitfalls... he went silent.

Judging from the way the guardsmen were talking back and forth, Marcus recognized that he was about to be taken into custody. So he waited. One of the guardsmen wandered too close to the underbrush. A small black-masked face poked itself out of the bushes. It caught Marcus' eye and nodded.

Huh?

The guardsman shrieked, and bent over to clutch at his ankle. With a little fillip of ring-striped tail and a grin at Marcus, the spirit beast was gone.

"Ow! Something just fucking bit me!" is also a truism across the many worlds. So is: "Oooh. Maybe you should go get that checked out. Just in case."

\---------

“Hey,” Marcus said, on his arrival back at camp, a bit breathless. “It wasn’t my fault, but I got arrested.” He pointed up the trail to the road where he had been dropped off. “One of the guards got bit by something and then they wanted to get him help, so they kind of lost interest in me.”

Rhys groaned. Duncan was already on his feet, scouting the area.

"Did I mess anything up?" said Marcus, worried.

"No," said the Arch-Mage. "We're just now finishing up with the physical structure. So far we have not cast any detectable magicka." He looked around. "We should probably take more care now, though." 

Rhys made an exasperated noise and cast a spell, the flash of it too quick for Marcus to catch. "This should help."

Marcus looked over the ropes-and-pegs and said: “Oh, wow, you managed to make a circle with all those straight lines.” They’d made a lot of progress in the time that he’d been gone. “And a heart-shaped umm.”

“A cardoid,” agreed Savos Aren. “Come sit. I want you to see how this next part works.” He smiled. "Using string makes this theory much easier for a beginner to follow. Do you see how it should work? Remember, each separate line of magicka needs to be focused as if it radiates outward to infinity." 

When Savos touched one of the pegs, a tiny amount of purplish magicka began to infuse it, running from peg to cord to peg, until the entire structure hummed a low note. Fascinated, Marcus reached out to it. “It’s all bending into curves,” he said, fascinated. “Even though all you've got is straight lines.” He followed the lines of magicka outwards, sensing how they turned and twisted.

Rhys knelt to touch the cardoid.

A few more long minutes passed. Duncan shifted from foot to foot, unimpressed. “We came all the way out here so you guys could dick around with string art?”

"Transliminal passage of quickened objects or entities without the persistent agency of hyperagonal media is not possible," recited the Arch-Mage. "And even if possible, would result in instantaneous retromission of the transported referents."

Rhys squinted up at them.

"Explain," Savos told Marcus.

Marcus pointed at the string structures: "Hyperagonal media. The string's acting as a guide for the projected lines of magicka to follow." Before Rhys could start mouthing the words "instantaneous retromission," Marcus said: "No anchor or a bad anchor, you try to portal, you get blown back out of the portal in as many pieces as it feels like making. That's what we saw with the portal site earlier."

"Wait. What does 'quickened' mean? Awakened?" Duncan had asked a question. Marcus was surprised.

"Sentient, maybe?" Marcus frowned, because he wasn't certain. "You saw how items by themselves can't be portaled. Or why would anyone bother with caravans or ships? Portals would be easier." He paused. "Some Daedric spirits can realm-travel. I don't know if all of them use magicka. And the Khajiit moonpath their goods around all the time, but how their caravan masters do it is they..."

“Be quiet please. We’re almost ready to start,” Savos told the two of them. To Rhys: "Could you screen us from view?"

Rhys murmured a short phrase and snapped his fingers. Everything beyond the demarcation of Rhys' spell-sphere was now greyed and blurred. Shapes were out there, moving-- more spirits, drawn to the working, but now they would see nothing.

Savos Aren did something nearly imperceptible, and the spiraled cords of the circle flared white for a second and then the most brilliant purple, working its way along all the lines of the cardoid. To Marcus' magickal senses, the white cords retained a tinge of purplish-pink. The geometrical shape outlined by the radiating purple lines of magicka repeated itself in an ever-tightening spiral, tailing outwards and twisting into a long cord, trailing off until it was lost to sight.

“You’re done?” Rhys seemed underwhelmed. “That seemed a lot more physical and less magickal than I expected.” He turned his head to follow the line of the cord. "From how far a distance can this be used?"

“It’s tagged to my magicka now. I don’t need to be near it to direct it,” Savos explained. “Even at thousands of miles distant, I will still be able to feel it.” To Marcus: “Two of my own personal anchors are back home in Falkreath. The one on Vvardenfell’s gone all unstable, though. Ash.” 

Savos closed his hand, and the faint hum and glow vanished. The white cords became mundane again. "You try," he said, to Marcus. 

Marcus gave it his best efforts, which the Arch-Mage looked over. Rhys did too, with an unflatteringly raised brow. "Now shut it down," Savos Aren directed. Marcus did and the faint pale-blue glimmer of his own magicka winked out. His head was pounding, and he rubbed at it, and gestured: no more magicka for him, today.

Savos looked to Rhys: "Were you following along? Do you see how the lines ought to continue and twist out into infinity? See what you can do to activate it."

The two of them played with it for some time. Savos had Rhys activate and shut down the anchor several over and over again. 

Marcus moved to the far edge of Rhys' magickal periphery and knelt to tap the nearby node, to refresh his own magicka. It was a brackish sort of magicka, but when one is thirsty, any water will do. He chose to leave his left arm alone. That horrible deep-seated itch told him that the injury was healing rapidly now. He would check it again in a couple of days. He gave his face the barest feather-trace of healing; just enough to bring the swelling down-- and immediately regretted it. Reluctantly, Marcus re-tapped, so that his magicka would be full up. He grimaced at its taste. He would be glad to leave here. 

As he got up, his pant leg snagged against the underbrush. Marcus leaned down to loose himself, and a small black hand caught his finger. A narrow little muzzle poked at him. It was the grey spirit beast again, looking at him out of its its black-masked face. Sitting up, it was just a bit bigger than a very large housecat.

"Oh, hi," said Marcus. "How did you get in here? Actually--" Marcus thought about it. "Never mind. Thanks for earlier, by the way. Didn't really want to find out what jail is like here. I'm Marcus." 

He glanced over. Savos and Rhys seemed to still be occupied. Duncan was standing lookout, goggles pulled down over his eyes, impressively impassive. Maybe he was napping, with his back against that tree-trunk. No one was paying attention to Marcus.

"Hey!" Marcus slapped at a pocket. "You're worse at pickpocketing than I am! I don't even have anything in there. Oh. Wait." He drew the broken necklace with its glittering beads out and knelt, handing it over. 

As soon as those clever hands took it, it vanished. After that, the spirit beast consented to let Marcus handle its ears, and he scratched its head for some time, admiring its striped pouf of tail and silver-tipped coat.

He grinned. "Don't let anybody else give you shit," he said. "I like your eyeliner. You kind of remind me of me after a bad night out." Marcus paused. "No, thanks. I think we'd better leave those bruises on my face alone. I think it's supposed to be a lesson, of sorts." 

The spirit beast nodded. 

"Do you want anything else from me?" Marcus asked.

It shook its head and darted off, giving a high-pitched chittering trill. 

Marcus wandered back up to see to the Arch-Mage.

"There it is." Rhys' anchor cords were now singing a different pitch, and were tinged Rhys' lucent dark green.

The Arch-Mage nodded. "Look it over for me, please," he told Marcus.

Marcus wandered all the way around the site, inspecting the anchor carefully, to see if it could have any of the problems that Savos had warned him about. "I think it's sound."

"Don't you want to take the anchor down and redo it?" Rhys wanted to know. "What if he missed something?"

"Unnecessary," said Savos, frowning. "Now mark it. See? Now no matter where you travel, you will not lose track of it."

The Arch-Mage stood up, wiping his knees. "Keeping the, er, string art intact is not strictly necessary, as the anchor itself is purely magicka. However, having the guidelines still present would be a useful visual aid for you if by chance the anchor should become disrupted by some magickal event."

The orks spent a little time dragging logs and rocks and sticks around, so that a casual hiker wouldn’t stumble across the string nest. A little gesture by the Arch-Mage, and the strings and eye-bolts and tent-pegs faded. Rhys reached into a pouch and tossed some yellowish powder and cast a spell. Marcus looked at him, impressed. It had been a tiny expenditure, almost no magicka at all, but the very-hard-to-see circle of cords now looked very like a thornbush. Perhaps it was a thornbush. Marcus did not bother to investigate. He was too busy trying to get burrs out of his socks.

Rhys said: “Let’s get back to the car. I’m finding myself getting very curious about the next part of this.”

Marcus opened the door for Savos Aren, and with a weary groan the Dunmer mage sank into his seat. As soon as the seatbelt latch clicked, he was asleep.

Rhys and Duncan were occupied with carting the items back down from the campsite and putting them in the trunk.

So Marcus had plenty of time to click his tongue, and... "What about Fenrir? That's a much better name. Or Olfand? No?" Marcus groaned. "I'm sorry, I've mostly been living amongst Nords, and Nords make rotten thieves. I mean, there's Brynjolf, but I can't stand that guy. There's a Thieves' Guild in Cyrodiil that's a lot more competent. And see, you've got a cowl already. Armande Christophe? Sorry that it's a Breton name. If it helps, that guy was a Redguard. You don't like Armande?"

Ten exasperated minutes later, Duncan slammed his hand down on the hood of the car. "No, I didn't leave my fucking keys back at the site. I put them RIGHT HERE on the hood of my car. Where the FUCK are my keys!?"

Marcus looked down into the footwell and held out his hand: a demand. While Rhys and Duncan were still scanning around, Marcus slipped the keys onto the driver's seat. "I think you'd better take off."

The little beast looked at him and nodded. It vanished. 

Two seconds later Marcus felt Rhys' detect-hostile-magicka spell wash over the car and its vicinity, but there was nothing to see. Savos was snoring loudly and Marcus' own eyes were closed, feigning sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I didn't think it was very respectful name for a trope, either. *deep breath*...
> 
> On the other hand, is there a better trope for a thorough schooling by a spirit bear? I didn't think so.
> 
> I cannot believe that menace Marcus acquired a raccoon. I'd love to know whose fault that was.


	12. Fear [Interrupted Intimacy]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part of the trial of the Dweller at the Threshold is facing your deepest fear-- can you overcome fear enough to continue onward in the face of danger?
> 
> Or someone else's fear?

_Neither of the two of them were in any special hurry to get back to the apartment, even though their work for the day was done. Duncan scooted his chair in bit more as the server brushed past them._

_"So then, he waits until Savos is dead asleep, and you step into the bathroom...and he takes me by the hand, and says: ‘You can come with me. I can get you out. He will never find you where I’m going. I’m not gonna bring it up again, but if you need it, just say the word.’ That fucking kid just broke my heart.”_

_Rhys put his face into his hands._

_After a few minutes went by, Duncan coughed. “Are you all right?”_

_“Yes,” said Rhys, without lifting his head. His fingers massaged along his own hairline. “I don’t know whether to laugh at him or scream, and it’s giving me a headache. Other than that I’m fine."_

_ Duncan'd thought that Rhys would think it was funny; but maybe he should have kept it to himself. Rhys was still looking down into his cup._

_"I wouldn't put a whole lot of faith in the kid's perceptions anyway. You should have seen how serious he was when he broke the news to me that you're a werebear. I had to find a nature program on shamanism for him."_

_Nothing._

_When Rhys did finally look up, Duncan felt chills. Shit no, not funny at all. He reached out to touch Rhys' hand, but they were briefly interrupted. Duncan held the menu up and pointed at random at a dessert. "More milk and more tea as well, please." The server left them._

_Rhys waited for it to arrive and built himself another drink. He had recovered his composure somewhat. "I would very much like to know what gave him such an idea." He winced. "Wait. You said he got into my sketchbooks. So I suppose he also went digging around in the--"_

_"No. He said he understands sex play just fine. He didn't have any questions about that." Duncan wanted to drop this conversation right now. Rhys persisted. _

_"It's little things." Duncan hedged just a bit. "Like how I'm always trying to cool myself down; and I always check with you to make sure I'm not running over you;" Duncan's hand splayed on the table. "He thinks I'm afraid of you." He grinned. "I always look at you when you come into a room, but that's not why. So I set the record straight. Guess we're not the only ones who got the wrong impression. Weird though, right? That's how somebody could see us?" _

Nothing in this home is yours, Marcus had said. Just clothes and weapons. 

Kid, that has nothing to do with him, and everything to do with me. 

_Rhys was still toying with his cup. "Would you even tell me?"_

_"Huh? Oh, yeah. Of course. Hell, yes. You don't exactly see me putting up with a whole lot of bullshit, do you? _

_Rhys had gone back into his normal space; he was shaking his head, now. "Just from my idiot guests." And as their dessert arrived: "Really? You got chocolate? I didn't think you liked the chocolate cake here." He sampled it and took more of it for himself. Then Rhys looked up--_

_"We do have an actual problem, apart from the minor inconvenience of my having been recognized as a--" Rhys cleared his throat. "Werebear."_

_They both smirked and Rhys started laughing, eyes brightening again._

_"Can we maybe explore that later?" The only benefit to this cramped table was that Duncan could nudge Rhys' thigh with his own. "Maybe when we no longer have guests."_

_Rhys' under-his-breath answer to that occupied a few more minutes. Their conversation moved on._

_"But to get back to our current situation," Rhys said, serious now. "Savos cannot acclimate. We tried a few different means of regenerating his mana; none of them work, and I have a great deal of hesitation bringing him to a power site again. He said that when he sank deep into it and made a great effort to draw, he could recover mana, but that disengagement was tricky. At one point, he was afraid that he might have gotten stuck channeling... So casting has become much more difficult for Savos than it should be. He says he's having to rework everything on the fly, to use as little mana as possible."_

_"So what's that going to mean for us?"_

_"I don't know yet. It's certainly not going to be good for Savos. This portal magic may not even be possible for him to accomplish, now. I'm not sure how much more we can invest in this little venture if it's not going to work."_

_Duncan nodded. "So maybe we need to start thinking about alternate arrangements." _

_Duncan tried a bite, and set his fork back down. The cake wasn't any better than the last time they'd tried it; and Rhys was just crumbling at it, not really eating._

_"Want me to dig a little more, find out what's going on in this kid's head?" Duncan offered. "I've learned from the best."_

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“If you fuck around with anything here--” Duncan began.

“I get it, I get it." Marcus reviewed their surroundings. “This is where you live?”

“Is something the matter with it?” That was Rhys, whose mood had darkened considerably. He had won the argument about where Marcus and the Arch-Mage would be staying, but now he looked as if he regretted it. He was irritable; edgy.

“Nothing,” said Marcus immediately, taking it all in. “It has good energy here.” He saw Rhys relax just a trifle, and exhaled. On the inhale, Marcus breathed in the now-faint scent of good cooking; laundry soap; and many different kinds of plants. Sitting on a chair, Marcus ran his fingers along the narrow little table, where the varnish had rubbed away to a bare spot. 

How had these two managed to pay for the rooms at the inn for all that time? And those medicaments? He watched Rhys go through the refrigerator, muttering in disgust, complaining about how much all of the rotten food was going to cost to replace. Duncan stood by, stoic-- but Marcus could read him: worried. Duncan ignored Marcus’ questions in favor of going back down to the car to bring up the bags and the books. When Duncan came back up, Rhys handed him a shopping list, and the two orks went over it, Duncan seeking clarification and re-clarification for every single item. Only then did Duncan leave to go run errands.

Savos Aren had slipped off his shoes to go lie down on the couch, eyes closed. Marcus worried about him. Savos looked greyer than normal. Sure, Savos'd tried to tap that node in the park, but that had not gone so well; and there was a hard limit to how much magicka anyone, even an Arch-Mage, could draw from a node over a short period of time. And the magicka here was not good for him. Marcus sat down on the floor beside him, putting his arm across Savos’ chest in a half-embrace, his head tucked under Savos' arm. Marcus sighed, and relaxed into him. Cool fingertips brushed along the back of his neck. This would all have been very soothing except-- 

Rhys was watching them.

They were on his turf now, was the clear implication. Marcus stayed where he was, even though the hair on the back of his neck had risen.

After a couple of minutes Marcus could hear Rhys walk back into the kitchen to start cooking. The vigorous clacking of a knife against the cutting board was the only sound audible throughout the apartment. Marcus tried not to read emotion into it. It sounded angry.

When Duncan came home, there was a great deal of whispering between the two orks; and Duncan trying to be placating. They excused themselves out to the balcony to eat.

Marcus and Savos ate their own supper in the living room and affected not to notice.

\---------

"You don't seem as alarmed as you were the other day," said the Arch-Mage, his voice just a bit tentative. Now was not the time to discuss his reservations about Rhys. Savos was worried, and it was Marcus' fault for running his mouth earlier.

“Hmm? No, I'm pretty sure that for these guys, a deal's a deal. Criminals are the best people to know if you need a favor." 

Marcus stood up to pull off his close-fitting t-shirt and don the borrowed one that was about seven sizes too large for him. "You're never going to get help from some rich bastard. Or anyone law-abiding, really. If you look shifty. But any pickpocket who's got two septims-- he’ll give you one, if he sees you need it. What goes 'round, comes 'round. And if you're a criminal, you know that tomorrow it's gonna be you." He yawned, hugely. "Good people would have handed us over to the guardsmen and we'd be so fucked. No commlinks, no SIN; some weird new kind of magicka... We'd be in some vault somewhere, cut into pieces." 

Marcus took the time to stretch out the muscles of his left arm, the way that he'd been taught. It was still getting better. He hung up his clothing with that same meticulous care, since he had only the one set. Once the creases in his pants were aligned, he hung them neatly over the back of the chair; and stowed his smallclothes beneath the modest little packet made by his folded shirt, before tucking his shoes neatly beneath the chair.

"On the other hand--" Marcus yawned again, as he came to lie down on the floor beside the couch. "Don't rely on criminals to make good life decisions. They do things on impulse. They don't like being bored, so they start shit they don't need to-- and get into it with each other. You still have to watch out for their bosses. So, really we shouldn't stay here long."

Savos Aren grunted acknowledgment and good night.

\---------

Something crashed over in the alley below, followed by hellish screams. 

Even though attenuated by the distance, the noise had been enough to wake Marcus. He was already sitting up. 

Duncan had come to the living room window and was looking down. "Jesus Christ, animals in the trash again. Idiots keep forgetting to secure the dumpster. I'm going back to bed."

\---------

“All right,” said Marcus, holding up a bit of worn-down sea glass. “What about this?” 

Probably he shouldn't have been rifling through Rhys' shaman supplies; but Rhys wasn't here to get pesty about it. And he and Savos really needed to get moving on spell-work.

Savos Aren looked at it and shook his head, returning his attention to the diagram in his notebook. “Bigger. It also needs to have a better chrysorefractive potentia. So an actual mineral would be needed. Glass won’t do. No useful crystalline structure.”

“Huh,” said Marcus. He stood up to get another box. “There’s this,” he said, holding up a large violet chunk. “Its color kind of looks like your magicka. But I think he’s already using it for something.” 

The Arch-Mage held out his hand for it and said: “Flawed amethyst. Pretty, but I think your perceptions are accurate. We should choose something else. If you hold it like this, you can feel the shadow of its previous connection to the lattice.”

“I didn’t even think they had the lattice here,” said Marcus, taking it back. He hadn’t been able to feel the moons, at all.

“Oh, it’s here. It’s just weakened to almost nothing. Might be due to all these lights.” 

The city lights were hostile to magicka? Huh. Well, that would explain a lot. 

“This?” Marcus asked.

“Also glass,” said Savos. He rubbed away a bit of his stylus mark with a pink bit and re-wrote a few numerals in his notebook.

Marcus was getting a bit frustrated. “This is mostly junk,” he complained. “I don’t know what you think we’re gonna use here, because they really don’t have much useful.”

At home, they could use an empty soul gem, or a garnet, or possibly…Marcus held up a round brass coin with a square hole in the center, and fancy lettering on one side. It held the feel of age, but was still shiny and bright.

“Metal is no good. Remind me why that is?”

Marcus sighed through his teeth: “Because it heats up,” he said. He set the coin back down on the bookshelf where he had found it, not without a little regret. It was pretty.

“Hm," said the Arch-Mage, approvingly. "Why don’t you put all that back and take a look through the other rooms?” he suggested, sitting up to stretch his back, and moving his writing materials to the low table. “Just… don’t disassemble anything else.”

Marcus went through the bathroom and the bedroom. He discovered many interesting things about their hosts, some of which gave him pause--and a variety of rather compelling sketches of Duncan-- but none of it seemed all that useful to their present circumstances.

"Ow! Oh gods, it's eating its way through my skin!" Marcus howled again and shook his hand in the air, trying to dislodge or dispel whatever-it-was he had triggered.

Savos got up, groaning and kneading at his back. He grabbed Marcus' hand to take a closer look at at the puffing blistery spots, and directed him to sit on the couch and not move a muscle. Marcus complied. Savos went on into the bedroom to examine the magickal trap.

"Go wash your hands thoroughly, with a great deal of soap and water," Savos advised when he came back. "Stop all that yowling. It's not magicka at all; it's an innocuous plant. Some species carry natural protective irritants-- this one seems to be like burrs too small to see." He went into the kitchen and mixed up some kind of white paste, and returned to daub it on Marcus' palm and between his fingers. "Next time you happen to be in an herbalist's lair, don't go rubbing your hands all over leaves you don't recognize. And Mephala's comfort, don't rub your eyes! There, it should ease soon. Don't go scratching at it; you'll only make it worse." 

Curious, Marcus tasted the white paste. Washing soda? His hand did feel better already.

After he was done washing his hands again, Marcus took another look around the kitchen, touching each of the plates and the bowls and the pretty, yellow-glazed teacup that had an entire half-shelf of the upper cabinet all to itself. It had flowers and little scenes on it. When his fingers touched it, it sang of contentment.

“What about this cup here?” he asked, returning.

“Doubtful,” said Savos. “Housewares here are essentially disposable, making them almost worthless for our purposes.”

“No,” said Marcus. “I really think you should have a look. It’s old, whatever it is.”

Savos took it. “Not by Dunmer standards--” He held it up to the light to examine its translucency. “About five hundred years old, give or take. Hard paste. Very nice crystalline structure for ceramic. Set it aside, but keep looking. It might be too valuable an item for them to want us to utilize it for this purpose.”

“We could just put the locus in it right now,” suggested Marcus. “What could they do about it? Because what if that’s the only thing we can find that works, and they say no?”

“Try touching it again. Sense its affinity.”

Marcus did, and made a face. “Okay. I see what you mean.” 

“When someone loves an object, it has a chance to become imbued with that affection,” said Savos Aren. “It’s not something as simple or straightforward as a true bond-- like you see with those plants out there-- but it’s a correspondence between the object and its owner nonetheless. It’s an unwise mage who disregards correspondences. Correspondences tend to adjust potentia in a somewhat unpredictable manner.” The Arch-Mage shut his notebook, and laid the stylus down, pensive. “Some variance is acceptable,” he said. “But not when it comes to portal magick.”

Marcus sat for a long moment, thinking. But now was not the time. He had better turn his mind back to work.

"So we have to ask Rhys," he acknowledged, with distaste.

“We do.” Savos Aren smiled. “Because this object is clearly bonded to him already. One benefit to locus-forming is that its underlying object becomes unbreakable. This may appeal to him. We will see. Otherwise--”

“Otherwise it will mean more shopping.” Marcus belly-flopped down onto the couch. “I hate this place,” he said. It was raining again, like it had been all morning, and the air still didn’t smell clean. “I don’t want to go outside again.” He rolled over. “How dangerous is this portal-anchoring business likely to be?”

“There are very few portals for a reason,” Savos reminded him. "Crafting the anchor itself is not arduous, magickally speaking. It isn't much of an outlay, but it does require a degree of practical knowledge in order to shape the aetherial currents just so and to be able to discern whether the overall structure is solid. Crafting a locus is nearly the inverse of that process: a locus takes a tremendous expenditure of magicka to create; but the process itself is straightforward. Finding a transit site and demarcating it is somewhere in between the two, in terms of level of difficulty; as is associating these three objects." Savos sighed, looking over his figures again. "Traveling through the void to find a destination site..." he cleared his throat. "Much less trivial, I'm afraid."

Marcus understood: that's how Conjuration mages are lost. 

"Are you worried about it?" 

Savos Aren stretched out his legs before answering: "From this distance and from a plane this hostile to my magicka? Very much so." 

The Arch-Mage's eyes had gone a deep oxblood red now, thoughtful. "I hope that I will not have to conduct much more research." He rubbed his fingers over the spine of his notebook, as if missing his own library; and sat up to stretch out his back. "No source that I've been able to locate here is all that helpful, so I'm being forced to work purely from memory, with no ability to check my notes. This is not how I prefer to do things."

\---------

“We found a really good spot for the transit site, and the best part is that no one will notice anyone coming or going because there’s a nearby municipal garage that services the international airport--”

Marcus took advantage of Rhys’ enthusiasm by pushing past his arm to snag himself another couple of curried beef dumplings from the platter. He got the last barbecue pork steamed bun, too. Rhys didn’t even notice, talking away. Marcus was listening to Rhys but only with about half of his attention, and he was resisting being drawn into the conversation. Savos Aren, veteran of thousands of faculty dinners, continued to methodically work his way through his first serving. The Arch-Mage was too weary to fuss.

Duncan got the last of the vegetables and mock duck; Marcus having elected to bypass that challenge.

Marcus was watching Savos closely-- once again, he didn’t look so good. So Marcus didn’t think that Rhys had been telling the truth about there having been no spell-casting. At least they had a site now.

"I'll take the trash down to the dumpster," Marcus volunteered, as soon as they were finished. The orks found it amusing that Marcus loved riding in the elevator. Which he did. But not tonight. Marcus spent some time crouching in the alley. His new friend Christophe didn't have any real insights for him. "You going to come in for the night?" Marcus wanted to know.

Christophe's masked face scrunched up a bit. His whiskers quivered: Are you crazy? Nobody sane trespasses in a shaman's living space. Assuming they can get inside the shaman's wards at all. 

"Alright," said Marcus. "See you around."

\---------

“You’re being a dick,” said Duncan.

“I haven’t done anything!" Marcus protested. "What have I done to him?”

The corner of Duncan's mouth twitched back: win for him, because Marcus knew exactly what he was talking about. Ergo, Marcus had done something to Rhys. Marcus went back to prodding at the eggs on his plate.

“You must think I’m an idiot.” Duncan leaned back in his chair, eyeing him.

“Nah,” said Marcus, and flashed him a quick smile. “You’re the smart one.” He pushed the remains of the omelet towards the ork.

“Don’t try that shit with me,” Duncan warned. “It doesn’t work.” He levered himself up, and took the nearly-empty plates to the sink. Marcus took his plate back to pretend that he was still eating, but Duncan pulled it out from under his hands to set it by the sink. He loomed a little closer, just in case Marcus didn’t get the point, and waited there until Marcus looked up to meet his dark gaze.

“If you hurt his feelings I will rip your head clean off."

Marcus said nothing.

"You know what it took for him to have us pick you guys up off the street? You know what you guys cost? That’s him, not me.” His laugh was without humor; curiously bitter. "Rhys is always playing rescuer."

Marcus sat at the table, waiting for the incoming harangue. Duncan cleared away the silverware, and the napkins. He did not say anything more. Marcus watched Duncan finish up the dishes and wipe the table down.

“You know why,” Marcus began, and stopped.

"No, I fucking well don't."

Marcus knew better-- of all people, he should know better. But he couldn't not try, so-- "Um. Sooo. Maybe it's just me," Marcus started, hedging carefully. "And I don't really always get how things go on here, so maybe it's just me? Don't put any, ah, credence in what I say if you think it's um." He sighed. "Please don't repeat this. But sometimes, you know how he gets? He just kind of scares me."

“And I don’t?” Duncan looked astounded. Offended, even.

"You?" Marcus waved this off. "No. I know what to expect from hard guys." But those who coaxed and made easy promises, with ready laughter; they made Marcus' blood run cold. He controlled his breath, willing Duncan to hear him, really hear him, please.

Duncan continued to watch him, thoughtfully. "Kid, if he was what you’re thinking-- if that's what you think's been going on-- he’d be in pieces bobbing up and down Kowloon Bay. I don’t put up with shit like that.” He scowled, his brows coming forward. “You think I do?”

Only one possible response could end this conversation: "No," Marcus lied.

Duncan tossed the towel at the dish drainer before stalking back to the bedroom.

\---------

"Come up here," directed the Arch-Mage. "I don't wish to raise my voice."

Marcus clambered up onto the couch. 

Even though it was full night, it was never dark here. The city lights glared through the thin curtains, and Marcus could discern every shape and shadow in the room. Even though it was night-- and they were twenty stories up-- it was never quiet. The blaring of traffic and horns; garbage trucks scavenging the alleys; even the neighbors, squabbling. Marcus had lingered in more peaceful noontide taverns. 

Savos' hands tugged at him to move up further. Crawling was still difficult. Marcus’ knee slipped, and when his weight came down on his left arm, he yelped. Now he was sprawled on top of the Dunmer, body against body, the loose folds of one of Rhy's old shirts getting tangled up between them.

“Um,” Marcus managed, because this was a lot more personal than the Arch-Mage had tolerated previously, and that thin layer of shirt was going to hide nothing. Savos patted him on the waist: Shh. Stay there.

Marcus' own skin was cool to the touch, from lying on the floor; Savos was warm enough to melt the residual aches and pains in his chest and shoulder. Marcus sighed, as his muscles finally relaxed.

"You are going to tell me, yes?" Savos murmured.

"Mm?"

"What did you do, to make them so angry this time?"

“Oh,” said Marcus. “I really don’t want them getting bored with us. That would be bad.” He pressed his face into the crook between Savos’ shoulder and neck, to feel the velvety texture of the skin there and to breathe, to get the full scent of his hair. “So,” he said, pulling back just far enough that his words wouldn’t make a kiss. “Just trying to make things interesting.”

From the thumping of the bed against the wall in the bedroom nearby, Marcus had certainly succeeded at that, as the orks worked off their annoyance with him. He was trying not to listen. Most of him was trying not to listen. A fair amount of his concentration was going into keeping his lower body completely still. As much as he could. Even if he had to bite his lip. Savos still persisted: he wanted to know what it was that Marcus had done. 

So Marcus told him.

The Arch-Mage drew in his breath. "Please," Savos whispered. "Please try not to do anything else to get them more upset with us." 

Marcus' right hand found Savos’ and clasped it, palm to palm: be easy. "You think I haven't been in this kind of situation before?" Marcus murmured. "Believe me, I know what I'm doing. We're fine. You’ll have all the time you need to make your calculations, and get set up; and--”

Marcus stopped.

Savos had started to breathe in hiccuping gasps.

"Are you all right?” Marcus got to his knees and began to pat Savos, his chest; his throat, his face.

A hand intercepted his; Savos whispered: "What happens to us?” The red of Savos' eyes was dimly present; the last color to fade in the room. “I could barely set that anchor while node-tapped!” Another gasp. “I have almost nothing left. I can’t even ensure that my work is correct. What happens to us when I fail to--”

Marcus’ hand hushed him. “You will,” said Marcus, firmly. “I know you will.”

Savos threshed beneath him. “I can’t even fix a damned bruise! I can’t--” His panic was contagious, but it would do Marcus no good to fall into it.

It would be too easy, here, to give into fear or despair. And it would solve nothing. It would be up to Marcus now, to keep them moving forward. He could do this. He drew three or four long breaths, centering himself.

"You've survived wars, assassins, magickal accidents, three separate Thalmor Advisors, Mirabelle Ervin, a Great Collapse..." Marcus leaned all the way forward, until their foreheads were touching. “You got through all that. Why not this? You don't need to be scared."

"I’m not scared," whispered the Arch-Mage. "I'm terrified. I have gotten us stuck here. The old portal is unworkable. I don't think I can build a new one."

“So? I’ve ended up stranded in lots of places I didn’t intend to be. It’s kind of awful, but you get through it. You just make a new life.” Marcus began to brush Savos’ hair aside from where it had gotten stuck to his face; wiping his tears. He kissed Savos on the cheek. “So when we find out we can’t do this; if that happens, we will just find something else we can do, alright? You're not alone here.” He continued to soothe the Dunmer; his hair, his face.

A new life, assuming they did not come to the attention of somebody more malign. Seeing the orks’ little apartment had brought that home: Rhys and Duncan's ability to provide protection was limited. Marcus was trying very hard not to think about that.

“We just need to be careful with all that spell-work you're doing. I don't want to be tracked down by some mage-sniffer and end up belonging to some crime boss." He pitched his laugh low; husky and rueful. "It's been enough trouble, belonging to an Arch-Mage-- uh!"

Savos Aren had grabbed his head and hauled it down with enough force that Marcus' nose smacked him on the forehead, right on that still-tender bruise. When he flinched, Marcus accidentally bumped into him again; and purely by reflex kissed him on the mouth.

He jerked his head back in amazement. "Oh, shit," he breathed. That was--

The Arch-Mage’s long fingers worked their way up to the back of Marcus' neck and drew him back down, tugging. Marcus slid back down; so that they were body-to-body again. He took the barest of breaths; just so that he could feel the gusts of Savos’ against his lips. Please.

“Sorry,” he husked. “That was uncalled for. I--”

“The things I find myself doing to keep you from making more trouble,” murmured Savos. His fingers tightened, again. Marcus moaned. Oh, gods. This.

Every few moments Marcus would stop and raise his head and touch the edges of Savos’ face, reverently; his cheekbone, his long elegant jaw, his forehead, until that hand tugged; and then they were locked together again, moving in slow synchrony. A quick shove bunched the shirt up under his armpits, and now they were skin on skin, heat blooming between them, Marcus stifling his little cries into the kiss that hadn’t ended.

\---------

The bedroom door crashed open, doorknob thudding against the wall. Footsteps stomped down the hall. A light blinded them. Savos, still facing upwards, cried out and covered his eyes.

“You mind?” Marcus managed to say, without lifting his head.

“Yeah, I fucking mind. Is that your goddamn couch? At least get a towel!” 

Duncan flipped off the light and slammed the bedroom door so hard it rebounded back open. Growled curses from Duncan, cut off only by the door clicking shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Duncan does that so well.
> 
> Nobody on any of the adjoining floors of this building is going to have sex again.
> 
> Ever.
> 
> They'll just nervously say good night and roll over.


	13. Magic [Portal Network]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magic is the most mysterious trial of the Dweller at the Threshold.
> 
> It is the art of shifting something, whether it be a physical object or a spirit or even a mere thought; and changing it purely by force of will. So what counts as magic? Is it a flashy spell-casting duel, or can it be something more subtle?
> 
> Remember that the Dweller knows every hidden thing about every astral traveler; and reveals whatever secret it chooses to your fellow travelers; the only guarantee is that it will be some history that you wished to leave unspoken.
> 
>   
So does magic shift something in the world, or does it shift something in you?

_"Did it get under the bed again?" Duncan got on his hands and knees to scout around for his other shoe._

_"Right there under your shirt." Rhys was still lying in bed, as if he had no intention of ever getting up._

_Duncan bent to him, and broke away after a couple of seconds. "Mm. Back in a bit. Short run today."_

_"Before you go-- I didn't really want to bring it up, but..." Rhys moistened his lips. He looked so soft and vulnerable like that, his hair hanging down and shrouding his eyes. He hesitated. "What we talked about the other night. How I could ever have given anyone that impression?" _

_"Yeah, that turned out to be an easy answer, so stop worrying about it." Duncan sifted through the bowl on the dresser without looking, found his keys, and stuck them into his pocket. "We found someone who's a bigger mess than I am."_

_Rhys propped up on his elbows, looking even more concerned. "That's not an answer." _

_Duncan took the time to sit back down, his hand reaching out to touch Rhys' shoulder; his hair. "I'm not sure I want to get into it all, because it's not my story to tell. The kid's got some history of his own. It's horrific. You wouldn't even believe how he talked about it, like it was no big deal. Little offhand comments that he dropped, like it didn't even bother him anymore. So he must be pretty resilient. But you don't get through that kind of thing without becoming hypervigilant. He never came out and said it, but it's pretty obvious to me that you remind him of someone. So no wonder he got the wrong idea." _

_Rhys looked pensive, like he was about to say something. Duncan waited, but the moment passed. Duncan leaned down to steal another kiss. His hand went back to Rhys' shoulder and squeezed it, hard. They lingered for a moment._

_"Just twenty minutes," Duncan promised. "Don't hog the shower."_

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Marcus wandered out of the bathroom, toothbrush still stuck in his mouth. "What're you doing?" he asked Duncan, curious. Duncan was moving furniture around to clear a larger space in the middle of the living room.

"It's pouring rain. Nobody's going to be out in the park today." 

Marcus squinted at Duncan: huh?

"You want to watch? I still have to get changed. I'll wait till you get done." Duncan gestured towards the bathroom: no toothbrushing in the living room.

By the time Marcus got back, Duncan was in loose pants and a short black coat; and his feet were bare. Ritual garb, Marcus sensed.

Duncan went to the middle of the cleared space, and stood facing the windows, his feet together and his back straight. Duncan went still, expression gone inward, to spend a moment in contemplation. When Duncan bowed in the direction of the window, his chin lifting as he did so, so that he could still observe everything around him. As though Duncan's preference was to keep even his god in line-of-sight at all times. Duncan made a swift offering; right fist clutched in left palm; and rose, his back perfectly straight. 

Marcus took up a position out of his way, noting that the aetherial currents in the room had shifted.

Nothing happened for a long moment.

Still focused, Duncan took a half-step outwards with his left foot; his weight shifting as he did. He was perfectly centered. Marcus watched the aetherial currents beginning to swirl around Duncan as Duncan's arms drifted upwards to begin a slow meditative dance. Duncan's calm gaze never varied as his hands floated along, seemingly absent of volition. Marcus waited until the ritual ended:

"What prayer is that? Do priests here teach it? It's a Walking Way-- show me this!"

"Qigong. It's not a religion." Duncan paused to wipe his hands on a towel. It was a warm and muggy day, for all the rain. "It's an exercise meant to keep you properly aligned and healthy. Pretty easy even for beginners, and it would help your arm and shoulder." He beckoned Marcus over: stand there. "What did you say this was?" 

"A Walking Way is a path towards magickal enlightenment, such that one might reach divine potentia," Marcus told him. "Once you walk in the Mythic, it surrenders its power to you." 

"Huh." Duncan raised a brow, amused. "Sounds like Master Li's way of talking about chi. Way beyond me." He showed Marcus the invocation. "Repeat the bow, just like that. Left hand open; right hand shut. Eyes up and open. Respect and vigilance."

Marcus copied Duncan's movements precisely. "So I can see how this ritual changes the aetherial currents--" Duncan looked baffled, so Marcus said: "It's stirring the trace bits of magicka in the room around. How?"

"Master Li says that doing Qigong realigns all the body's chi-- its natural energy-- so the chi runs along its meridians properly. So you don't get sick. So maybe that's what you see?"

Marcus didn't know. He repeated Duncan's next series of movements: hands rising from the floor; the cat-stretch forward. He could feel how his left shoulder was settling back into its natural place. There was something too this ritual, all right.

"I was going to do Tai ji quan next-- tai chi. Yang-style, one of the shorter forms. More martial and less contemplative. Want to see it after we do this?" Duncan showed him the next movement again. "Lifting buckets. The buckets are full of sand. They're heavy."

Marcus followed along with his hands crooked to hold bucket-handles; forearms braced against the imagined heavy weight. "What's a meridian?"

"I don't know much about the mystical side of things. Meridians are kind of like manalines."

"Bodies have leys and nodes just like the world does," Marcus agreed. "But I think your mage friend would want to be the one to show you yours."

Duncan was frowning at him now, disappointed. "Kid, he has a name."

"Sorry." Marcus sighed. "I will try to do better."

Qigong did feel good. It was soothing, and it stretched out Marcus' arm in a way that the exercises hadn't. "Can we do this tai chi thing now?" he asked.

"This is the first stance that you get taught in tai chi. Start with bow stance. Pay attention to my feet. Okay? That's good. Now, the second. Horse. No, put your feet like this. Straight, like each foot is on the rail of a track." 

Marcus looked at Duncan. 

"Parallel." Duncan showed him. "It keeps your legs straight and helps keep you from getting off-line."

Ah. Marcus adjusted his feet. 

"You've had some training," Duncan noted. He began to show Marcus the first few movements of the tai chi form.

"A little," Marcus said. Marcus was concentrating on keeping his left arm from lagging behind. It didn't hurt anymore, but it still felt sluggish.

"Arm up. No, like this." Duncan demonstrated, his palm rotating outward, his forearm following suit to deflect an imagined strike. "But maybe you should start taking it easy. Just do the footwork."

"So this chi energy-- if you move it around enough, it heals your body?" Marcus wanted to know. Knee aligned with toe in bow stance; he shifted his weight to crouched back in... third stance? Cat.

"If you want to know more about chi, you'd have to get some real teaching. Pick up your foot." Duncan tapped his toe against Marcus' leg.

Marcus lifted his foot. He stayed perfectly balanced.

"Good. That's how your weight should be." Duncan shifted his weight to flow from bow stance to cat stance. Marcus echoed him. "Good. Solid. When you switch to bow stance your back foot becomes the one you should be able to keep mobile. See?" Duncan took a step back to let Marcus try again.

Marcus was grinning: "Chi is magicka," he said, enthusiastically. "I can see it now!"

"So you're saying that if I do enough tai chi I can eventually talk to a spirit, or cast a spell?" Duncan was displaying tusks, pleased at how quickly Marcus was following along. "Master Li never mentioned any of that." His face changed. It was subtle, but Marcus caught it. "Would that include going through a portal? Even though I'm not Awakened?"

"No reason why not," said Marcus. He stopped as well, and took a moment to dry off his torso and the back of his neck. "You can ask Savos yourself if you want."

"Yeah." Duncan shook his head to rid himself of the sudden change of mood. "Let's get a quick drink and then maybe try a little Push Hands? We can try with just your right hand for now."

Duncan took up his position cautiously, given the height differential between them; but Marcus had sparred with his uncle before, who was even bigger than Duncan. So Marcus already knew where to put his hands. "So, this is kind of like sparring, only gentle and slow. Your attention should be on the movement of your energy and your breath. This teaches you to feel how your chi affects your opponents; and how the opponent's affects you."

"I got it," said Marcus, fully absorbed.

Duncan demonstrated, putting the edge of his right hand against Marcus' right forearm. "Maintain contact, so. Keep your muscles soft. Remember how your body is supposed to flow from stance to stance. No, no. When you stiffen up and shove like that, it becomes an argument. It's supposed to be a conversation. See?" Duncan pressed his arm forward. "This is a question." Now Duncan pivoted and shifted his weight fractionally, just enough to encourage Marcus to countermove correctly, with a sideways brush. "And that is your response. See? Action; reaction. Now it is your turn to ask the question."

"This is way better than just running stairs." Marcus was still smiling, ecstatic. "I'm gonna show Savos. He's going to love it." 

\---------

"What's wrong?" Marcus stopped, letting his hands drift back down. He looked to Duncan. "Am I not doing this part right?"

"You are." Duncan frowned at Savos. "Is something bothering you?"

Savos had closed his eyes, and was pressing his fists into his cheekbones. "Oh, no," Savos said hurriedly, wiping hands across his face. "My head is just aching a bit. To me it looks like you've done an excellent job picking this dance up so quickly. Any instructor would speak highly of you." He sighed. "I should take myself off to be alone with my thoughts. It has been an eventful day. Would it be too bothersome for me to use the balcony now?" 

"Did I say something wrong?" Marcus asked, worried. He had been chattering at Savos too much, because he was so happy. 

Duncan lifted a shoulder, and dropped it. "Try not to read anything into what somebody does. Unless they tell you they have a problem. Or you'll just make yourself crazy."

Marcus nodded, still worried.

But when it came time to go to bed, Savos pulled Marcus up onto the couch again and wound his hands in Marcus' shirt to keep him from getting away. So maybe Marcus wasn't the problem after all.

Relieved, Marcus slept.

\---------

“How long have you been on your own?”

“Me?” Marcus was surprised. He slipped Duncan's goggles off and rubbed at the indentations in his forehead. Why was Duncan talking to him?

Maybe Duncan was bored with re-oiling his knife collection or whatever those weapons were-- too many moving parts to be simply knives. 

Rhys and the Arch-Mage had left again, shortly after dawn. So far this morning, Duncan and Marcus had gone through their workout and Marcus' limbs were too tired to go on with any more martial arts. Trid had nothing to offer, so Marcus had been using Duncan's goggles to review the local restaurant advertisements. So now Marcus was dying of stomach-envy a good two hours before lunch.

"Sorry for noticing." Duncan carefully ran a cloth down one gleaming edge. "But I didn't exactly get the impression that you just fell out of the nest."

“Ever since I could run away out the front door fast enough to not get caught," Marcus said. "How old were you?”

“Six. My parents were murdered.”

Too bad mine weren't, thought Marcus. He bit his tongue hard, looking at those somber eyes. “That’s about the time I started to realize it would be better if I were somewhere else. My brothers had already gone, maybe a year before that? Maybe only a few months. I tried to go with them but they took me back home and left me there.”

Duncan’s breath puffed. He rocked back in his chair. “They didn’t do that to be nice, is my guess."

“They didn't." Marcus picked up one of his own notebooks and began to trace around letters he had already scribed. His fingers needed to memorize the movements. "How did you make it through all that?" Marcus asked. He nodded, listening, all the while following along the exercises that the Arch-Mage had set for him. There was a rhythm to this scribing that he had not noticed earlier. It was starting to feel less uncomfortable now that he could follow the paths of these letters without using his eyes. "You never found out what happened to your sister? Nothing at all?"

Nobody giving a shit about street kids is also something true on every metaplane. 

Marcus returned his attention to the notebook. Now he was practicing writing words. He and Duncan worked quietly for a time.

When Duncan got up to put his knives away, Marcus went to look out the window. "It's finally sunny. Could we go for a walk?" 

Duncan agreed. Maybe he was getting restless too. 

As they went along, Marcus saw the occasional flick of a ringed tail disappearing behind corner or tree or parked car. Marcus clicked his tongue at Christophe, but all that happened was that Duncan looked at him funny.

"Is there a place I can look at books with pictures of animals?" Marcus asked. "Like, animals that come from this plane here?"

"There's a bookstore on the next block," said Duncan. "And Shek Tong Tsui Library not too far away. Why? You don't want to go look it up on the trid?"

"Trid isn't real," Marcus scoffed. He had no hope of navigating what he couldn't read. "Can we go?"

If you answer a couple more questions for me, maybe." Duncan spread his hands. "You can't tell me a story like you did earlier and just leave it hanging. Your call."

"All right," Marcus said, reluctantly. "Books." And at Duncan's look: "I won't mess with or steal anything."

"What's this?" Marcus asked, pointing at a familiar-looking picture.

"Raccoon. They're from another continent, not anywhere near here. North America." Duncan grinned broadly enough to expose tusks. "You get to know them pretty well in law enforcement. Lots of intruder calls turned out to be these tricky little guys. They break into houses and rustle around. We always kept a couple of live traps in the back of the vehicle."

"Thought I might have seen one," Marcus fibbed. "At the nature preserve."

Christophe chittered reproof. Without looking down, Marcus batted a small hand away from his concealed knife-sheath. Christophe went back to all fours and huffed, to proclaim innocence.

"Anything's possible," Duncan agreed. "Some raccoons might've gotten released to the wild here. Crazy people try to keep them as pets, but they tend to get loose. Destructive little bastards."

\---------

Marcus and Duncan sat in a little park a few blocks from the apartment. It was breathtakingly hot and humid and the sun was glaring off the many buildings, but neither of them felt like going in.

Marcus went on: "It was pretty clear I was the favorite, so that was why. Vekel admitted all of it to me later. My brothers figured that if they left me behind that our father wouldn't care enough to follow them. They guessed right." Marcus flicked at the peeling paint on the table.

Duncan turned his hand palm up: go on.

"They left around the time my father got kicked out by his mother’s people," said Marcus. "We were living with them in Bruma. A long time before that, my grandfather'd had us all removed from the _gens_\-- from our patrimony-- so we had no place to go in Bruma. The two of them took off, heading north over the mountains into Skyrim. The rest of us ended up moving all the way south as far as the Imperial City." He looked up at the towering buildings around them. "Probably the biggest city in our world, but nothing like this. Anyways. My father managed to get in good with the local gangs. Moving large cargo mostly. Stuff stolen off the ships and from the Legion. He made a lot of friends and so on, and he let me stay with them sometimes, so I was always able to find someplace to be. My mother was a drunk. She barely noticed if I was gone.”

“What do you mean, ‘had a lot of friends’?” Duncan was scowling again.

“I’m hungry,” Marcus announced, getting up off the bench. "Can we get noodles? No? Why not? So-- can we go back home and eat?"

\---------

Marcus listened intently as Duncan spoke about Echo.

“I never had a friend like that,” Marcus said. “I never had a brother." 

Duncan snorted: "You said you had two." 

Marcus simply continued to look back at Duncan until Duncan cleared his throat: apologies.

_They left you behind, didn't they? Maybe they knew you wouldn't amount to shit._

"Anyways," Marcus went on. "There was this girl, but I think I liked her father more than I liked her-- no. No no. Not like that.” Marcus reached for another chunk of mango and ate it, wiping his fingers clean on the cloth napkin. “They were good people. My girl used to take me back with her to get something to eat, and one day her parents caught us in the house. Her father used to run a junk shop, and I helped clean up stuff and pick it apart for him, and he paid me whenever he could. Showed me how to do stuff.” Marcus sighed. “After a little while, he let me stay there with them, you know? With my girl. He didn’t have any sons, so he was hoping for grandsons, I guess. I wish I could have stayed.”

Duncan took a drink. “So why didn’t you?”

Marcus poked again at the remains of lunch. “I went to jail for a long time. When I got out, the gangs-- well.” He pushed at his plate. “It was get out of the City right then or die.”

Duncan continued to watch him, with those shrewd dark eyes. “You were a rat.”

Marcus shoved his own chair back and stood up.

\---------

“Hey. Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it.” 

Duncan tried to grasp his right arm, but Marcus hunched it away from him. He continued to wipe down the sink, scrubbing away with great vigor. He had been cleaning.

“I was just talking to talk,” Duncan was saying. “I’ll shut up now. Just--”

“Get out of my face,” said Marcus, with no more heat than if he were saying “this water’s kinda wet.”

Duncan heard him. Duncan raised his hands and backed off. Way off, into the living room, and then on into the bedroom, so that Marcus wouldn't have to look at him.

The water was still running. There was nothing left to wash. Deliberately, Marcus reached to turn off the tap. He reached back into his pocket and re-snapped the sheath of the knife, taking great care to moderate his breath, because that would help. He fumbled with the locks of the apartment door for too long, because his hands were still shaking, but he got them open at last.

Marcus didn't have to go any further than opening the door to the fire stairs. 

Christophe was already sitting there, looking concerned. "Hey," said Marcus, with relief. He sank down against the wall and let the little raccoon climb up into his lap. He buried his face into Christophe's shoulder. "I don't know how to do anything here. I can't barely feel ground, all the way up here. Or find my way around in it. Could you help?"

\---------

“I am sorry,” Duncan said, an hour or so later. He was standing in the hallway. "For whatever that's worth."

Marcus pushed himself to his feet: “We’re good."

“I mean--”

Marcus cut him off: “So. Now you know what kind of a piece of shit I am. Is that good enough? Can we move on?” Marcus brushed past Duncan and went into the apartment and flicked on the trid. Some sports show that Duncan cared about and Marcus didn't. "You want the couch?"

Duncan took the chair instead. He didn't try to speak. 

They watched in silence.

\---------

“Wait, I got a little lost there. Tell me again how old you were when you were with the cats. The cat people, I mean. Do they really have tails?"

Marcus was looking out the window, a post he’d been maintaining for the past hour. It was starting to get late. “Most of them do. Ears, whiskers, all of it. People call them cats for a reason. I was with the Khajiit all along the Gold Road,” he said. “It’s a pretty long road, all the way across the continent, almost. And the caravan didn’t move fast, because people came and went from it all the time. Sometimes we would wait in the same place for a month. So, it was at least a year till I got to Anvil?” Marcus frowned. “I was sixteen by then. So I wasn’t able to petition the priests for help. You’re grown at that point, you’re supposed to get a job.”

“You get one?”

Marcus did not answer that. He stayed at the window. 

Duncan didn't press him.

“What were you doing, around that age?” Marcus found himself asking, just to see what would happen.

Duncan's answer was a lengthy one.

"Good that you found somebody who wanted to look after you," said Marcus. "I kind of wish I'd run into someone like Raymond." It was getting dark enough that Marcus was starting to just see his own reflection, and that was like looking into nothing. So he stepped away from the glass. "Rikard came along, eventually," Marcus said. "He was difficult, but anything was better than staying in Anvil and dealing with the Argonians. At least he got me out."

Duncan gestured: friend?

Marcus winced. "Ah-- no. He was ah-- he hired me. But it turns out he was sick and what he really needed was a caretaker. Either way, I was willing to get on the ship. We got almost all the way to where he was going when he died. It put me in a tight spot."

Duncan glanced at the clock on the wall. He touched his comm-link, again. Nothing.

“How long did Rhys say?” asked Marcus. There, he could say the name. He was trying. See?

“It's past that time now.” Duncan was beginning to look a bit worried.

“Can I go out on the balcony?”

“Don’t mess with the plants,” Duncan warned.

“Only if they don’t mess with me.” 

Rhys’ plants were indeed unique, but after their initial curiosity they left Marcus alone and went back to their own concerns, much like cats. Marcus sat in the chair, listening to the sounds of the city. There was an underlying wail to this city, like a suffering creature left alone in pain. How could anyone live here, hearing this? 

“What did you people do to this place?” Marcus wanted to know, when Duncan joined him. “It’s in such distress. Oh, hey, that’s beer? Thanks.”

“What people?”

“I don’t know--” Marcus gestured. “All of the people here, I guess? It's like this city used to be beautiful and strong but now it's all ruined. It's not like this where I come from.” 

"I bet I wouldn't like it where you come from, either."

Marcus laughed. “You wouldn’t. You have to walk everywhere and we don’t have those plastic bag things.” He leaned forward. “Some of the trees are taller than these buildings. You can’t even see the sky. All you can smell is green.” He grimaced. “All you can smell here is piss. And rotting garbage. Nasty.”

“There are nicer places than what you’ve seen."

“Ah.” Marcus drank the beer. “Hope so.”

“You know, it didn’t make sense." Duncan leaned back in his chair till it rocked up on two legs, and braced his feet against the balcony rail. “What you said earlier. How long were you in jail?”

Marcus looked at Duncan out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t seem accusatory. Just puzzled, like he was trying to work something out in his mind.

“Almost a year. After a little while they pretty much had to keep me away from the other people who were in there, so it seemed like longer.” Marcus drank again. “I was still young. That’s why you’re all mixed up. Fourteen, maybe, when I first went in.”

“I remember that you said for thieving you get your hands chopped off,” said Duncan. “So that was the part I was having trouble with.” He put his feet further up on the railing and his chair groaned. “I assume for a big crime, they don’t bother keeping you and feeding you. They just chop your head off. So why keep someone in jail a long time?”

“They do execute for murder. Sometimes it’s even a holiday-- special cases where they call the Emperor's men in. Work’s called off, families bring the kids out to have a picnic and watch. Nah. I wasn't that important. Just-- ah-- a material witness." Marcus laughed, softly. "I actually hadn't done anything.” 

Duncan snorted.

"That time," Marcus clarified. "I was being good. I'd been staying with my girl and our--" Marcus' words hiccuped, startling him. It was like his mind had slipped on an stair-tread that was no longer there. He tried to recover his thought and could not. "I was staying out of trouble and keeping my head down."

Duncan grunted as if he didn't quite believe this, but Marcus took his meaning: go on.

"So what happened was that the Emperor's men had a hard time finding anyone willing to testify,” Marcus said. “He had friends. So there had to be arrests and interrogations. But everyone already knew I would know everything, so--” His voice faded to a whisper: “So they knew what to work on. And I ended up committing the biggest sin anyone could ever commit. Against my own family... and all they had to do was talk to me. That's all it took.” 

Marcus drank the last of the beer from the can, slurping for emphasis and distraction.

Duncan grunted again: stop doing that, kid. 

Marcus stopped.

He looked at Duncan, but Duncan was saying nothing. His face was in shadow. There was no reading it.

“My uncle was so pissed off about how things turned out," said Marcus. "He never told me that to my face, though. I mean, Ahtar didn’t have any problem telling me he wished my father’d been dead from birth... but the way that execution went down it fucked things up for the entire family gens, forever." He sighed. “I had to find that out from other people. So when my uncle said that the rest of the family would take me back, maybe--” Marcus squeezed the can, crumpling it, trying to get it to make as much noise as possible. “I’m just not even gonna bother trying," he finished. "Anyways. They wouldn't like how I dress.”

Duncan's commlink went off. 

“No, no it's all right," Duncan said into it, looking strained. He winced: "I don’t care. Whatever looks good to you. Get a lot of it.” He went into the apartment so that he could hear.

\---------

“I just had a couple more questions. They're stupid, so don't feel like you need to answer them if you don't want to.” Duncan got up to rifle the fridge. He found a bottle of water, shimmering with condensation, and opened it for Marcus. Marcus took it gratefully, and pressed it against his face. It was so warm here.

"Sure," he said.

“Why didn’t your uncle help you out? When you had all those problems?”

“He was months of travel away,” said Marcus. “We don't have, ah, commlinks. And I didn't know him. We didn't meet till I got up to Skyrim.”

Duncan was setting the table; they were going to eat like people tonight, rather than like savages with paper plates. Marcus approved.

"Ahtar always treated me like kin even though he's adopted-- we're not blood." Marcus took a long drink of water, thirsty from the beer. “He’s probably out looking for me.”

Duncan merely nodded. "So who got murdered?” 

“What now?” Marcus asked.

“They executed your father for killing someone, so who was it?”

“That's why I ended up in jail-- they were thinking at first I'd done it. Because I'd got that reputation on the street." Marcus' shoulder lifted. "You know? Knives." He shook his head. "That's the one thing I am good at."

Duncan understood.

"Also I guess because I wasn't really surprised or upset, to find her like that?" Marcus turned the bottle cap around in his fingers, feeling its inner ridges with the pads of his fingers. Such a clever sort of stopper. Much better than a cork.

Duncan was trying to get him to confirm: “Your mother?”

"Yeah, I guess you could call her that." 

Marcus began to drink the water before it became too warm, feeling its refreshment flood into him. It was odd water; none of that chemical stink to it, but no flavor whatsoever. Probably as good as he was going to get, here. So he was thankful for it.

"He-- ah-- he'd been working on that project a good long time. I got past caring about it. There's only so many times you can--"

"I get it, kid."

Marcus looked at him. Yes, he thought maybe that Duncan did.

"Now and again I still stopped by home," Marcus said. "Sometimes a neighbor would come looking for me, if it was really bad." He lifted his forelock from his face, where he was still too warm and sweaty. "Good thing I could heal a little." Marcus traced the fading bruise marring half of his own forehead. Marcus had been too stubborn to finish healing it; or to even let Rhys touch it. 

Too trivial an injury. 

It didn't even hurt anymore.

Duncan pulled the chair out of the way, and leaned down with his hands on the table so that he could gaze directly into Marcus’ face: “All right. One last thing I've got to know: why did the two of you come here?”

Marcus blinked at him. "Savos got lost." He turned the empty bottle around and about, watching how the kitchen light reflected off the flimsy plastic surface. "I know you don't believe us because it's really stupid. But it's the truth." He looked up, weighing Duncan's gaze. "You don't trust what we say?" 

"Ha. I don't know that I trust what anybody says." Duncan continued to scrutinize Marcus, closely. "Why do I get the feeling you're a pretty good liar?"

"That would be because I am," Marcus acknowledged. He began to tear the bottle label loose in progressively tinier strips. This occupied Marcus' attention for awhile. Duncan stood over him and waited, knowing that eventually Marcus would have to look up. "You're good at this," Marcus said. 

\---------

"Aren't you going to eat?" Marcus had an arm around him already, concerned.

Savos Aren had gone from ash-gray to ash-pale, and was swaying on his feet. He shook his head at Marcus. Despite the muggy evening, his skin was cold and dry to the touch, so Marcus wrapped him in the blanket and got him settled down on the living room floor, one of the couch cushions under his head.

Marcus and the orks shared the take-out dinner in the kitchen, the living-room chair pulled awkwardly up to a corner of the small table. The food was delicious but after seeing Savos like that, Marcus could barely eat. Marcus offered to clear up, so Duncan and Rhys went on into their bedroom. Marcus kept on cleaning, just for something to do. The cupboards hadn't been wiped down in awhile, so he did that, and then he washed the floor. When Marcus was done he took the trash down to the dumpster, but Christophe was nowhere to be seen.

He found himself sitting on the couch, aimlessly leafing through a book with entertainingly improbable pictures. As a dedicate of Dibella, Erdi might like this book, but Marcus wasn't sure it would have practical use for anyone else. Was it supposed to be for amusement purposes? Marcus turned another page.

“Don’t strain your back, kid.” The comment-in-passing was so Duncan-like that Marcus looked up. He deliberately turned his gaze away: Rhys didn't get to call him that. Rhys snorted to deflect the insult, and went ahead into the kitchen.

Rhys came back out. "Were you the one who did all that cleaning in there?" A couple of seconds later, he repeated himself, to emphasize that he was not going away.

Marcus folded the book closed over his hand. "Yeah. Something wrong with that?" Marcus glanced over. Savos was still sound asleep with the blanket up over his face. No help there.

“Sorry, no neutral third party available. Looks like you’re going to have to talk to me. And thanks, by the way." Rhys moved the chair back to the living room and sat in it, looking smug. "How do you think we're coming along on this little portal project?"

Oh, the shaman wanted Marcus' opinion? Fine. He could have it.

"We were doing a lot better before you took Savos all the way back out there today. He wanted to get more of the spell-work done tonight or tomorrow, remember? Look at him. Do you think that's going to happen now, or even any time soon?" Marcus scoffed. "Great plan of yours, putting the transit site so far away from here." Rhys' justifications deserved no better than an interruption: "We might not have cameras where we come from, but you don't have to talk over me like I'm an idiot. I understand what surveillance is, thanks," Marcus said, coldly. "I get it-- you can't have guests that just suddenly disappear. Do you really think I can't count? There's probably ten thousand people who live in this tiny little area. Over a thousand in this building, maybe. You could probably drop a portal one building over and nobody'd trace it back to you. Putting the site hours of travel away? Stupid." He folded his arms. "So now, if we don't want any more delay, it's going to fall on me to make this locus."

“Is that something you can even do?” Rhys had put his feet up in the chair. He was frowning right back at Marcus.

“Have a little faith, maybe?" Marcus said, irritated by his skepticism. "I've made one before." 

A little one. For a portal that went about sixty feet down to a study room in the Arcaneum. Savos had guided Marcus through crafting the locus for learning purposes, but the shaman didn't need to know all that.

"Fine. You want me to show you?" Marcus got up and went to the kitchen. Rhys followed him.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing with my teacup? Don't even touch that! It's absolutely irreplaceable."

Marcus motioned: keep your voice down! Savos needed his sleep. 

"All right, all right. I was just going to show it to you as a kind of object lesson," Marcus lied, pitching his voice low as a strong hint. "It's the only thing we could find here that meets all of the proper specifications for a locus." 

Rhys shut the cupboard door and stared down at Marcus. "No. You are not using my Qing Dynasty cup for your little experiments."

"Take it up with Savos. When he wakes up." Marcus wasn't backing down, but he handed over the cup.

Rhys took a breath and quelled himself. "Savos and I will speak. Let's go sit. I had a question."

By the time Rhys resettled himself in the chair, his face had resumed his usual pleasant lines. "So I've heard Savos outline the theory, but sometimes he gets technical, and I want to be certain that my understanding is absolutely correct. Could you run through it one more time for me? Start to finish, how do you build a portal?” His voice had assumed an abstract quality; he was no longer interested in the personal.

“Okay," said Marcus, relieved. He could do this. He could talk shop. "A portal needs five physical items that have been imbued with magicka: a locus; a transit site and a destination site; and a transit anchor and a destination anchor."

Rhys nodded.

"The transit anchor is built on your home world-- ah, metaplane-- and coupled with its transit site, which is also here. On the world you're trying to reach, there's a destination anchor, coupled with its own destination site. Our destination site and the destination locus already exist in Skyrim-- in fact we're going to try to grab one of Savos' own anchors to root the transit site." Rhys seemed to understand this, so Marcus went on: "So here on this side, we've built the transit anchor and the transit site; next we craft the locus, and then..." Maybe that was too simple.

Rhys cleared his throat. "I'm having more trouble conceptualizing. How do all of these pieces fit together to make the portal?"

“Anchors are like the pilings that hold up a bridge. The transit and destination sites are like the beginning and end of the bridge's span. You know, the places where you step onto and off of the bridge when you walk from one side to the other? And the locus is…” Marcus thought about it. “The locus is like the builder's plan for a bridge. The way Savos explained it to me was: you can take all the parts and pieces of a bridge apart and put that bridge back together further downstream. Not easy, but it could be done. You would still have a bridge. But if you don’t have a plan for a bridge-- or even the idea of a bridge-- fixed in your mind before you go to build one, all you end up with is a mess of logs and boards and stones.”

"A locus is the Platonic ideal of a portal." Rhys picked up a pencil, and fiddled with it. "Or its blueprint."

Marcus furrowed his brow until further explanations were proffered: "Yeah, that's exactly right."

"So in my mind a portal is built kind of like a suspension bridge, with those ropes that cross over and back. Do you have suspension bridges on your metaplane?"

Marcus wasn't sure, so Rhys turned on the trid to show off some pictures.

"Oh, yeah," said Marcus. "See how those cables cross back and forth like that? That's exactly how it works. Transit site to destination anchor. Transit anchor to destination site. That's the hard part. Then it's anchor-to-anchor and site-to-site; once site-to-site is built, it's all kind of woven together and you have a portal."

“Can a transit site be moved? I thought Savos was saying--”

“Back when they used sigil stones instead of locuses and anchors, transit sites were always right there where the caster was. One-time use. Savos says that no one does portals that way anymore. Making a sigil stone is a real pain in the ass and Daedric princes live to fuck you over. The way it's done now, if your transit anchor is still intact and connected to the destination site; and you're still holding the transit locus, you can take down and set up the transit site anywhere you please. It takes time, but it's pretty routine."

Rhys had reached for a notebook and was writing in it, looking thoughtful. He had another question.

"Not really," said Marcus. "I mean, you could, if you had the locus. But if an anchor fails it's generally easier to start over, like we're doing. Did Savos show you how to make a site by yourself?”

“He did, but..." Rhys tapped at the paper, thoughtfully. "The idea of it seems to be the hardest part for me to grasp. There are two sites, crafted at two different times. Maybe by two different people. But Savos said there is only one site? So do the transit site and the destination site merge together while you're building the actual portal, to produce the portal site? Or do the transit site and the destination site remain separate entities, with void space in between them?"

"Sites are two completely separate things," Marcus agreed. "But Savos is right. There are two but there is only one."

Rhys looked a bit perplexed: "I want to be sure I catch your meaning. Could you go through that again?"

Marcus thought about it for a minute. Then he went to the bookshelf, and found the item he was looking for. The antique coin. "Yes and no. There are two sites. Each keeps to its own fixed plane. You can't see anything about one from the other." Marcus held up the antique coin its obverse facing Rhys. "Transit site." He turned it about, showing off its reverse: "Destination site. They can't merge." Rhys made a noise: go on. Marcus rolled the coin over his knuckles and held it between thumb and forefinger edgewise, tilting it this way and that. "But there's only one portal, because sites are just like two sides of the same coin. That's the secret of portals." 

"So it's kind of like a paradox--"

Marcus made urgent motions for silence; he didn't want to lose this thought: "That's why you can't lose any time traveling through portals, not even the time from one heartbeat to the next. You're not going through void space at all. Once you step into an active portal you're not going on a journey-- you're already there. You have already gone through it. " Marcus rubbed the coin between his finger and thumb, thoughtfully. "Hey, I think this thing is just brass. Is it supposed to be valuable?" 

"No." Rhys was still absently writing. "Tourist junk, you can hang onto it if you want. Hold on, I'm still chewing this over." Rhys reached to pick up one of the Arch-Mage's notebooks and paged through it to one of his diagrams, his eyes gone luminous with intellectual excitement. "It is a paradox."

Marcus shook his head, bewildered: word?

Rhys rephrased: "It is true that there is only one portal site; but it's also true that there are two separate sites--the transit site and the destination site."

Marcus said. "Yeah, because if they weren't separate, the planes would merge. Because they would be touching each other too much. Like soap bubbles." He grinned. "And if they weren't together-and-the-same, if you stepped into a portal nothing would happen. If you think that's messed up, Savos says it gets even better. Some Conjuration mages say that when you transit planes you are not actually traveling anywhere." Marcus spread his hands, to indicate his whole self; his recently-cropped haircut; his cargo pants and t-shirt. "You aren't changing some other plane by portalling into it, because you can't change other planes. A person can't do that. Only gods can do that. So when you change planes, you aren't making changes in the world. What you are changing is no more than your apprehension of the world."

There, Marcus had remembered it exactly right. He thought.

Rhys was looking even more interested. He requested a few more minutes and took notes. He glanced through one of his own notebooks and took more. Eventually he looked up: "I take it Savos doesn't think much of that you-can't-change-things theory?"

"He's spent some time testing it," Marcus said. "Some weird things do happen. He's tried to transit to different planes and leave signs behind. Like a cut tree, or a broken window. Sometimes when he portals back, the mark he's left is there. But sometimes it isn't. And time doesn't pass the way it should when you're off on the other plane. When you get back home, sometimes things seem different than they were from the time before you left. Savos says that's the reason some mages think you can never come back home to the same plane; you just return to a close approximation of it."

"And yet Savos is using a portal to shortcut down to the library so his feet don't get cold." Rhys laughed, near-silently, and gazed at the sleeping mage with affection. "He's got a different attitude towards risk, that's for sure."

Marcus shrugged: truth.

Rhys stood up. "That's enough philosophy for one night. I think I need to learn quite a bit more about anchors. They seem to be the most technically challenging part of this whole process. But before I go back through Savos' notes again, I need to get supper prepped for tomorrow, so we don't have to get takeout again. Want to come into the kitchen and cut up these onions for me while I get the rest of the vegetables ready? I might have some more questions for you.”

Marcus hesitated. But he promised Duncan that he would try. 

"Yeah, sure," he said. "Just-- I got a quick question." He reached for the book and held it up, open to a particular page. "This one's for real?"

Rhys tossed his notebook onto the low table and turned to go towards the kitchen. "It's a how-to guide. Not a fantasy novel." He went on into the kitchen.

Fair. Marcus put the useless book away and followed Rhys.

"Say, If I tell you everything else you want to know about portal anchors, will you explain to me about spirit beasts?"


	14. Destiny [Chekov's Boomerang]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So who is the Dweller at the Threshold?
> 
> The guise the Dweller adopts for this confrontation is always that is best suited to its task-- which means that it is the one that is the most difficult for you to face; and it foreshadows the future to come.
> 
> Some say the Dweller is a powerful being from time unrecounted who jealously guards the gate between the worlds.
> 
> Some say that the reason the Dweller takes the form of the thing that you fear most is because it is a mirror for the shadow inside of you.
> 
> Some say the Dweller is you.

_Rhys sat up, pulling the covers off Duncan and elbowing him in the process._

_"What's going on? Did I get a--" Duncan reached for his commlink, only to find that it had not gone off. 0430 blinked back at him in glowing green numerals. "What is it?"_

_"Artri just picked up some activity at the transit site. Watch your eyes." Rhys flicked on the light and began digging around in the closet._

_"Fuck. Does that mean we gotta go all the way out there? Right now at the crack of ass?" _

_Rhys hesitated. "Maybe not just yet. Artrí picked up a few ripples. I can't tell exactly what it is without going out to look at it, but it's probably someone completing that portal. The next train out that way is not till morning rush, soo..."_

_ Duncan watched Rhys get dressed, the lean muscles working under his skin as he tugged the shirt over his head. "We could always wait here," was Duncan's suggestion. "Savos knows his way back to this place via the train, right?" When Rhys gave him a look, Duncan shrugged: "If we're correct and it really is Savos, he'll get here just fine. If it isn't Savos, it's probably someone we don't want to meet, so why go down there and get involved? The local security will pick it up." Duncan paused. "It's at least two hours by train to get here from there, and you said the next train isn't for half an hour?"_

_"Not till six." Rhys yelped as Duncan snaked an arm around his waist and tugged him back down onto the bed. _

_Whoops._

_Duncan had forgotten about their guest. _

_The two of them listened, but no sound came from the living room._

_"Seeing as there's no rush--" Duncan murmured._

\---------

_Duncan's pleasant drowse was brought to an end when Rhys made a sudden choking noise and sat up again._

_Are you all right?_

_Rhys waved off concern; he was stifling the giggles. "Wish you could see this," he managed, and broke off chortling and then: "All right. Three elves and an ork just came through the transit site, and Artrí says they're just standing around arguing. Savos is there with another grey elf like himself. There's two others, a shorter elf and an ork who looks..." He snickered. "Who looks like he ought to run a used bookstore. Now they're all looking at a MTR map."_

_"Is Artrí allowed to give them any hints?" Duncan wanted to know. "Wait, what are they saying?"_

_Rhys was a brilliant pink from suppressed laughter._

\---------

_"Shh! And remember what I said-- one at a time. Walk in single file and present the octopus card to the dark window with the red all-seeing eye."_

_"What octopus? I don't see any..."_

_Savos hissed. "No! Not the card with your picture on it. The other card! With all those bright colors on it. The one that I showed you! And watch your step getting on board."_

_Urag gro-Shub said: "If you'd have told us what kind of filthy mess this place was, I would have worn my boots." He tugged uncomfortably at the bow tie around his neck, and said: "Is this choke-chain around my neck strictly necessary for this guise? Because it's not very comfortable. It keeps digging into my chin." He slid into one of the brightly colored seats, and scooted over to let Talvan take a spot. The youthful-looking Bosmer pulled the messenger bag into his lap to make room for Savos and commenced looking around himself, curious._

_"Leave your clothes alone," said Savos Aren to Urag. "And be happy with what you've got. It was the best I could do on very short notice."_

_"I look like an idiot," the elderly orc grumbled, tugging at the striped cuffs of his broadcloth shirt._

_"You look like a librarian, which is what you are. Stop messing with your sleeves." The Arch-Mage winced again. "Drevis! Why are you wearing your sunglasses? It's still dark out! People here don't do that. You look like an idiot."_

_The Dunmer Ilusion Master had taken up a seat across from them. "Why do I have these things if I'm not supposed to be wearing them?"_

_"Put them away! You look like you're hung over."_

_Drevis Neloren peered over the frames with with his pink-sclera'd, red-irised eyes. "Well, that'd be correct," he said, more sourly. "I didn't exactly anticipate being pressed into service so many weeks ahead of start-of-term." Savos Aren made an imperious gesture at him, and Drevis sighed. "Fine." Drevis cast a spell. A moment later, there appeared to be nothing out of the ordinary at all about their small party._

_Except for the bickering._

_Artrí shook his head._

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“See? That’s a locus.” Triumphant, Marcus displayed the pretty yellow cup on the palm of his hand, triumphant. The cup began to wobble as he lowered it. "Oof. That took more out of me than I thought."

Rhys snatched it up. "Careful with that!"

"No need," said the Arch-Mage. "No mundane damage can harm a locus; and very little that is magickal. Mind you, I wouldn't want to test it versus an Atronach Forge, but anything short of that should be..."

Marcus leaned his head back against the couch, grateful that Savos had taken over the burden of explanations. Let Rhys doubt Marcus' workmanship; Marcus was too wiped out to care. Now that the exhilarating rush of spell-casting was gone, he felt dizzy and nauseated. Somebody put an open bottle of water in his hand. Marcus began to take small dutiful sips.

"Nothing can harm it?" Rhys was still looking the teacup over, scrutinizing its patterns for any minute cracks. "Thank you. I think I will still want to take care; these people had got it as a debt settlement and didn't even care enough to find out what it was, so I took it in lieu of payment for the job. It'd be worth fifty times that if it had provenance, and--" Rhys' voice was rising.

“"Give it here," Savos cut in. 

Marcus was puzzled, but he had already closed his eyes; and it wasn't worth trying to open them. Where was Savos going with that cup?

An anguished orkish bellow. Loud angry threats. 

Wearily, Marcus pushed himself up to his feet and went to look through the bedroom door. Duncan had Savos' arm in a tight grip, but murder did not look imminent. Rhys was leaning over the balcony rail, trying to determine whether his prized antique teacup had dropped all twenty stories or hit one of the balconies below. 

Why didn't Rhys just ask--

Rhys was upset. He probably wasn't thinking clearly. 

Marcus went to get his boots, and sat on the couch to lace them up. It would be more useful for Marcus to go find that cup than get caught up in the argument. His ears were already ringing, anyways. Marcus reached for the water, and grimaced at his next swallow. He still felt dry-mouthed but the water wasn't sitting well. 

Duncan hauled the Arch-Mage back into the living room and forcibly sat him in the chair, Savos protesting the whole while. 

"Do you mind if I poke around in the fridge?" Marcus wanted to know. "I should probably eat a little something. I feel kind of funny." 

Duncan grunted in disbelief: are you fucking kidding me? now?

"Never mind." Marcus closed his eyes again, and groaned. Eating would be a bad idea, too.

Rhys was still stomping around; getting into his street clothes, grabbing his jacket, grabbing his keys. Duncan remained still, but Marcus could sense him getting more agitated in response. All of this tumult was disturbing Marcus' precarious equilibrium. "Settle down," Marcus advised. "Stop worrying. It's your locus. It can't be harmed or lost."

Before Rhys could even finish getting his shoes on, someone knocked on the door.

"You might as well get that," said Marcus, distantly.

"Did you two order food on my account again?" It took a moment for Rhys to click open all of the door locks. "I thought I told you that you were NOT to..." 

Resounding silence from everyone in the apartment: what the fuck. 

Marcus opened his eyes, and sighed. "He's just a friend."

Christophe was in the doorway, sitting up on his haunches with a familiar-looking teacup in his hands. Artrí materialized behind Christophe and started sniffing around the hallway. Threat? What threat? Artrí perceived no threat.

Anxious to please, the little raccoon proffered the cup.

\---------

Marcus opened the door to the fire stairs. "Any cameras watching us right now?" 

Rhys flicked a hand and growled: not anymore.

"Do you all get charged extra rent or anything if there is damage in the common areas?" Marcus wanted to know.

"Only if they can prove it it was us. Why?" Rhys scowled at him.

Marcus threw the cup full force down the concrete steps, just to watch Rhys flinch. It bounced off a wall before rebounding to the next landing, rolling down several more steps to a stop. Chittering madly, Christophe darted away after the teacup, and brought it back visibly intact.

"Damn," said Marcus, wavering. "Just a little light-headed, there. Maybe have Artrí toss it, next?"

The bear couldn't actually hold the small cup in his paws, but he certainly could bat it out of the air, and this time it shot down several landings, slamming against walls, steps, the floor, and the metal bars of the stairwell railings. The raccoon spirit beast squealed and galloped down to fetch it. The cup was still in pristine condition; the stairwell not so much. A sizeable blue-painted chip had been knocked off the corner of a concrete wall. There was a small dent in one of the metal railings.

"Let's try this," said Marcus. He set the fragile-looking cup directly on the concrete, and lifted a metal-toed boot. 

"Ow," Marcus said, rubbing at his foot and leg, where the shock of the stomp had reverberated through his bones. "We could try running the car over it if you want, maybe?" he suggested. "Or get a big hammer?" He looked up at Rhys, all playfulness gone. "Whatever it takes to convince you that I know what the fuck I'm doing."

Rhys allowed that it wouldn't be necessary. He was just worried about losing the--

"I told you. You can't lose a locus that's bonded to you." Marcus leaned back against the wall, because his foot was killing him and his vision was dimming. "You know what, have fun doubting us. Figure it out for yourself. Because I'm kind of feeling like shit."

When Marcus woke to his surroundings again, he was on the couch with a wet cloth on his forehead, and his cheek resting against a warm little creature that was curled dark mask-to-ringed tail, purring.

\---------

"Oh, no," said Savos Aren was saying, smoothly. "No offense taken. I certainly understand. For instance, I tend to lose my temper when my expertise on something is called into question." He was still smiling, but for just that instant, his red eyes were corundum-hard, staring down Rhys. "I also dislike it when you continually challenge my young colleague here. If I say that a student has the necessary aptitude to perform a task; then yes, he does."

Marcus blinked. He was still mouthing the words 'colleague' and 'student'-- what was the Arch-Mage going on about?

Rhys also looked a bit taken aback.

But then Savos nodded with a graceful gesture: conceding fault. "Next time I will be far more specific about the results of the proposed ritual," he acknowledged. "Do you see all of these?" He indicated the pile of his notebooks, now sitting on the kitchen table. "My plan is to collate these notes, in case you need to later reference any details about the process of building and maintaining a portal. I'll leave you all of my scribblings as well, of course, but I think this summation will be far more helpful to you."

\---------

"Savos says it's filthy and uncomfortable out at the transit site, that's why," said Marcus. Was Rhys completely oblivious to what exposure to the city was doing to Savos? "Why not do the anchor-seeking work here? It's much safer for us here under the wards."

"It is true that I have put a number of protections on my home that take significant time and resources to accomplish." Rhys' chair creaked as he shifted his weight. "If our main concern is being sheltered from outside scrutiny, this apartment would be the best place for us to work. But I'd like to know a great deal more about the potential risks before making any decisions here."

"Risks to your residence? Minimal." Savos took another thoughtful drink. "Working in the void is not akin to astral projection, where one needs to ward against all sorts of malignant entities. It is the void, after all. By definition, almost nothing can live there."

"So what are the chances that a void beast or a creature from another metaplane or a Daedric Prince or some kind of spirit could follow us back here?" Marcus wanted to know. "Because that would be kinda exciting, but not in a good way." 

The Arch-Mage chuckled. "Effectively zero. The void space between the worlds is vast; so vast that even if there were such malign entities, encountering one would be as rare as-- oh, I don't know. Like catching a White River salmon as you dragged your fishing net through a lake in Auridon. Not impossible, but vanishingly unlikely." 

Rhys caught Marcus' eye and raised a brow: as unlikely as running across a friendly raccoon spirit in Hong Kong, huh? 

Marcus elected silence.

"Shall I go on to detail the more likely risks?" Savos paused as a still-goggled Duncan came into the living room with a teapot. Savos held out his cup for a refill, and sighed, wrapping his long hands around it and inhaling the vapor of the pale celadon beverage. He said to Duncan. "This is wondrous, thank you. It's remarkably different from the cup I tried yesterday morning." 

"That's because when I make tea I don't stew it to death and bury the evidence under milk and sugar." Giving the lie to his words, Duncan came back from the kitchen with a second teapot and plunked it down next to Rhys, who happily refilled his locus with his favored sludge. Duncan ambled back out, tucking his earpieces back in.

"The biggest risk with void-anchoring is that in the void there is no room for error. If you remain in void space too long or wander too far from your body while looking for your anchor-point, your spirit will become lost." Savos sipped at his tea, sighing with pleasure at its jasmine aroma. "And when you discorporate, which can happen within a few heartbeats of exposure to the void, your working attenuates. Sometimes that is the first sign that something's amiss." He drank again. "One hopes for a vigilant spotter." Savos looked to Marcus. "You've stepped into the void. What do you remember about it?"

"There is no time there," Marcus said. "And you're floating, and you can't see any edges? So it's really hard to gauge distance. It's like being on a ship when there's distant fog. You think you see something; but then you don't. You get really disoriented and confused. And you can't hear anything. Not even your own heart." He drank more of the pale-green tea.

Rhys was interested. "Do you become distressed in any way?"

"No," said Marcus. "The void didn't feel like anything much to me. I didn't want to go far. I wasn't scared of it, but I was terrified of getting lost."

"That's what can make void space so dangerous," agreed Savos Aren. "You can't really feel it sapping your magicka; and when that is gone, you have bare seconds."

Their conversation ranged onward. 

"How many of these portals have you built?" Rhys wanted to know. "Start to finish."

"Built?" Savos considered. "Several dozen. In the neighborhood of fifty to sixty. I've built portions of many others--anchors mainly-- and I currently either maintain or consult on most of the portal sites on Nirn. Several hundred of those. So I find myself traveling a great deal."

Content to listen, Marcus took Savos' hand and held it. His fingers were warm again. Here within the protections of Rhys' apartment, Savos was doing better.

\---------

"I think I need to take a break for now," said Marcus, rubbing at his eyes. "The last two of these set-spells failed. I'm just wasting my time until I get some rest." He looked at Savos, considering. Rhys and Duncan had gone out to work; they would likely not be back for hours.

Savos was already shaking out his pen hand to loosen its cramp, and closing his notebook.

Marcus winced. "Do we really have to watch trid?"

“Why? Have you thought of..." Savos’ intonation shifted slightly. The trid clicked off. "Something better to do?”

"Mm. I have. Just not sure where." Marcus pulled off his shirt and took the time to hang it over the back of the chair. He could feel the heat of Savos' gaze playing over his skin. 

Marcus touched the curtain screening off the entryway from the living room. Flimsy. Nothing that would give an ork pause, if he were coming in out of the rain with an armload of groceries. “They’ll just walk right in and then go straight to the kitchen...”

So not the kitchen. And Marcus had learned the hard way about how Rhys felt about someone blockading Rhys' access to the bathroom. The balcony, covered with plants, held barely room for two chairs and a tiny table. “Well, they’ve already been pretty unhappy with us and we've survived, so-”

"Sweet Deceiver, in their _bedroom_? No.”

“It’s the only place that gives us enough time to get up if they come in." Marcus looped arms about Savos’ waist from behind, and pressed upwards against him to mouth at the warm velvet of Savos’ neck. "We can move the rug. Stop arguing."

Savos continued to make entreaties-- not there! He was appalled.

Marcus ignored all this to kiss and nip and suckle at him. He pressed his face hard into the crook of Savos’ shoulder and bit down on him through his shirt, increasing the pressure of his teeth until Savos grunted. Marcus’ fingernail traced a delicate path down the invisible hairs cresting Savos’ ear. Then he ran his palm down Savos’ body to where his cock pressed a flat arc against the confinement of his pants. “You need this,” Marcus tempted. “I need this.”

"I still think it's highly inappropriate for us to invade the sanctity of-- Ahhh!" Savos Aren's whole body went taut. Marcus shoved himself against the Dumner’s now tight-muscled thigh and rubbed, groaning along with him. His fingers continued to work the Dunmer’s shaft through his clothing. Marcus squeezed its suddenly-flaring head, just to wring a gasp out of Savos. “It’s their own private space! We shouldn’t be intrud...ngghn..ah.. Intruding on--”

Why was Savos still talking?

“Fine,” Marcus breathed. “You get to complain some more while I count to five. If you're not all done complaining by then, you won't have to worry about what room we're gonna be in.” Marcus’ fingers tightened, prompting a low wailing cry. “Because it’ll be the laundry room. Washing out your clothes. One.”

Marcus' fingernail started to get involved, pressing briefly against the slit. Savos groaned and gripped Marcus' hand, bucking into it: harder. Marcus obliged for a few seconds. Then he switched hands, to work Savos with his weaker left. Savos protested; he wanted--

“Two,” Marcus murmured. His right hand ghosted up the back of Savos’ thigh. The thin soft cotton of Savos' pants and smallclothes was no real barrier. Marcus shoved hard, burrowing right up under Savos’ balls to his furrow, striving to finger-fuck him even through the cotton barrier. Savos squirmed to encourage him: more.

“We still complaining?" Marcus panted. "Bet I don’t even have to get to five. Don’t think you’re making it past three. Want to find out?” Marcus' hips moved them, lewdly.

"Are you insane? They’ll kill-- Gods!"

Marcus dropped his hands and backed away. “Well, I can always find my own things to do,” he said, cheerfully. “I’ll just be in the bedroom, then.”

He went into the bathroom to get the mandated towels and to take a thoughtful perusal of its cabinet. After the last incident, Duncan had given him a brief orientation as to its various sundries, in the hopes of preventing another.

By the time Marcus got to the orks' bedroom, Savos had gotten the rug shoved out of their way and was lying on his back, rubbing himself through his clothes. Savos’ shirt was off, and his black hair was a wild tangle everywhere. His eyes were closed. The top button of Savos’ pants was undone, and he’d gotten them down a little ways, but it looked like that’s where he’d hit his limit.

Marcus inhaled sharply at the sight of him; at the helpless arc of Savos’ hips and the glistening of the skin above his upper lip. The Dunmer’s greyish skin had flushed all rosy, along forehead and cheeks; neck and chest, and running in a broad swathe down the middle of his belly.

Marcus set down the bundle he’d been carrying, and rid himself of his own pants and smallclothes in one swift motion. He sat down beside Savos and begin to touch him, pads of his fingers grazing across arms and chest.

Savos’ hand slowed down and eased, so that now he was just cupping himself gently as Marcus’ hands passed further and further down his belly. When the edge of Marcus’ hand brushed wet softness, Savos’ ethereal moans turned to ragged gasps.

Marcus laid his cheek down against the warmth of Savos’ chest, looking down to where Savos’ hard cock pressed the waistband of those soft pants upwards. He reached to begin stroking over its head with his thumb; lifting his face just enough to suck at Savos' nipple, eliciting a long groan.

Was that another complaint?

“You’re the one who left your pants on,” Marcus countered, tugging Savos’ clothing aside. “That’s gonna wait. You let me do this.”

Marcus took the time to shake out the towel and tuck it beneath them, shaking his head over ork foolery. Whatever. Marcus was resolved to be a good guest. Only once he was satisfied with its placement did Marcus move to straddle the Arch-Mage, his weight astride Savos’ hips. Savos’ cock pressed slick impatient kisses against his back, his spine.

“No,” Marcus cautioned again, his hands brushing Savos’ aside. “Don’t touch me.” Marcus went back to petting.

“I didn’t bring you to this place to service me,” Savos said, miffed. "That is not why I--ahhh!” Marcus tweaked at Savos’ nipples again, this time hard. “Uh. Kept you."

“No, really?” Marcus pressed his own weight down further. “I’d re-examine my motives, if I were you.” The side of Savo’s neck where Marcus had been working was still all red. Marcus wanted more of it. He leaned forward. When Savos tried to kiss him, Marcus refused him, turning aside. “Mmm, no,” Marcus murmured. “Spent all that time on your mouth the last time. I want to play different games.”

Marcus continued to toy. When Savos' hand came back to his thigh, Marcus slapped it away. “You stop or this stops,” Marcus warned. “This is mine.”

Savos vented a huff of frustration, but he took his long fingers away and laced them behind his head to avoid further temptation.

Marcus continued to work him over, with strokes and little touches and pinches and scratches and long strokes. A few times Savos cried out, but he really wasn’t all that close in Marcus’ estimation, so he kept on. Marcus moved his own hips lazily, enjoying the changing sensations of Savos’ skin beneath his own thighs. The feel of Savos’ hairs there, downy-soft transitioning to wiry-rough; the touch of the hard prick gliding against his buttocks, against the crack of his ass.

It was so much easier this way; Marcus could stay with it; there wasn’t the constant litany in the back of his mind: let this end. His hands continued to work. Every time Marcus felt himself starting to drift away he brought himself back with a little tightening of his fingers: This. I want this.

Once Savos was shivering and his movements had gotten more uncoordinated, Marcus leaned forward, taking the time to rub his own straining erection against Savos’ belly. He savored the hot glow it raised, all up his own chest and down his thighs.

Marcus hadn't even touched Savos' mouth yet; but when Marcus gave in, Savos' lips were already hot, puffy, loose. Savos whined and sucked at his tongue, trying to perpetuate the kiss; but Marcus was already lifting himself off.

"Soo,” Marcus said softly, a bare quarter-inch from Savos’ lips. “Don’t you think now’s a pretty good time for explanations?” His tongue flicked. “So. Why’d you keep me?”

Savos jerked convulsively at the touch of Marcus’ breath, and Marcus felt him gasp. Oh. Marcus lifted his weight up off his ribcage a bit to let him answer.

Savos shook his head, wide-eyed: he was refusing the question.

“Okay,” said Marcus, agreeable. “We can stop all this.” He slid off Savos and started to get up.

“No!” Savos panted in disbelief. Long hands tried to drag Marcus back into place. “It’s not-- I just-- it would defeat the entire point of the exercise. Oh, gods, that sounds so foolish of me. Please.”

“Oh, so you’ll tell me, then?” Marcus queried, brightly. He let himself be touched; holding himself still for a moment to let Savos’ hands claim him. “Or--” Marcus backed away, out of reach. “You won’t?”

The mage’s elegant hands looked like dying birds, empty and fluttering there. Savos looked bereft. Lonely and hungry in a way that struck at Marcus’ heart. Even the wisps of Savos’ beard were falling awry. Marcus smiled at him, waiting.

“I’m sorry,” Savos said, defeated. “I have no good answer I can give you, because it is a foolishness that will cost me everything.” Savos moistened his lips. “Would you come here?”

“So what am I? Your pretty little cup? A pet?” Re-mounted, Marcus leaned down again, to trace the line of Savos’ brow; his cheekbones; his jaw. More kisses; to the corners of Savos’ eyes; to his chin; his mouth. Savos gripped onto Marcus’ arms, to keep him close. Marcus pulled back a bit, to lose himself in that ruby gaze. But Marcus couldn’t; he really couldn’t-- he’d been down this path before with the Dovahkiin and look how that had-- “What was that you saying to Rhys-- student?” Marcus demanded. “Because that really isn’t true, is it? And it wasn’t very nice.” He scowled. “What am I?”

Savos’ eyes had gone to a thin vein of pink around burgundy-black centers. “Please,” he whispered. His hands went up to rub through Marcus’ hair; and he drew Marcus down to kiss him with the reverent care of a ritual: center of forehead; eyelids, mouth. The hollow of his throat. His heart-- this made Marcus jolt. Savos’ soft laugh was caught in his throat; a pained thing. “More like a teacher.”

_Bullshit._

Marcus resettled himself as Savos let go, sitting up on his knees again to survey the Dunmer mage. “I don’t understand.”

Savos Aren spoke some clashing syllables in Dunmeris. Whatever-it-was made Marcus wince and turn his face aside, shamed. He didn't want to know it. He didn't ever want to hear it again. “Stop saying that! I have no idea on Nirn what you’re talking about,” Marcus protested. He touched Savos' cheek. "Why are you crying?"

“You don’t recall?” Savos hesitated, trembling. “When I put you under the Command Will spell, I asked you your name. And you told me.” He spoke a syllable with reverent care.  


Marcus felt even odder; dizzy and dislocated. He didn’t like how the Arch-Mage was looking at him. Marcus didn’t mind being worshiped, precisely; but this was bizarre. Right down to his bones, Marcus knew that he did not want to know what that syllable meant. At least he had a ready--

“I must’ve given you my brother’s name. I use all kinds of names when I’m out on a job,” Marcus said, relieved. “So sometimes I borrow it. He’s in Riften, and he’s a worse criminal than I am. Believe me, he deserves whatever trouble comes from it.”

Savos looked at him gravely, obviously believing all that a lie. More despondent kisses followed, leaving Marcus edgy and uncomfortable. "I wish you could remember," Savos Aren said, sadly.

“Stop it! I don’t want to be talking about this. I never want to hear you bring it up again.” Marcus made an effort to sound less sullen.

_Stop whining. _

“I just wanted to know if I was worth anything to you,” Marcus said, mouth pressed into Savos’ hair.

Savos' hands reaching to soothe; to reassure, to-- More kisses flowed between them, transmuting from sadness to sweetness to something richer and more bitter-edged, like moonsugar darkening over a flame.

“Ummm. Um. Hey.” Another kiss. “Hey! You didn’t really answer--”

“Now?!” groaned Savos. He rolled them to their sides, belly to belly, pressing prick against prick; tried to wheedle his hand in between them.  


Marcus rolled them right back over. “I think so," he growled. "Now.”

Savos Aren gasped, and not with fear. He licked at his own mouth.

“Because I wanted to see what would happen,” Savos confessed. “And I love watching you-- ha!” Marcus’ teeth had snapped together onto an unprotected ear-ridge and the Arch-Mage’s body vibrated like a bad lute peg.

Marcus released him: “Ooh! Sorry-- mm. Now that, I’ll believe.” Marcus kept mouthing over that same ear, lips and tongue continuing to apologize.

Savos' knees rose, to wrap around Marcus’ torso, dragging him closer. When Marcus clamped down again with his teeth, the Dunmer howled, digging every fingernail into Marcus’ hips, begging for every dry-humped thrust. Marcus’ fingers traced his mouth; Savos sucked them in and whimpered. He arched his back, rubbing and doing his level best to get Marcus into him.

Marcus reached for the bottle near the towel and flinched at the salve’s touch. Savis moved a thigh and hissed: cold.

“Take it easy,” Marcus cautioned, as he tried to get positioned; but Savos felt him poised to breach and hooked an insistent leg to pull him all the way in. “Huh! Slicker than horker salve,” Marcus said, astonished, as Savos panted under him. “Too much? No? Good?” Marcus started to move; gently, leisurely.

“I told you. This is mine. I'm the one who asked for this.” Marcus stilled Savos’ frantic urgings, and smiled to take the sting from it. "Hold still a moment." He took a long, slow breath to cool himself down. "Roll to your side." He straddled Savos' lower thigh; slid back into him, and guided him into place. "Here. Look at me. Touch me all you like, now." His hips began again; a slow, insistent grind. The angle meant Savos couldn't press back against him; it was all Marcus' to control now. Marcus’ hand slipped between Savos' thighs to cup and stroke, squeezing Savos’ prick harder every time he moaned. “Better?”

Savos nodded. Tears were rolling down his face again, trickling into his beard. Marcus moved slowly, savoring the feel of the magicka flowing through himself and through Savos. Flooding down the leys and nodes, limning them with tracers of light; like the magickal cords weaving themselves, far off into the distance.

Only once he felt the little ripples rising up Savos’ thighs did Marcus allow himself to ease; to sink into that pleasure; to call to himself the same rising hum. "There you are," he murmured. "Let it happen slow."

\---------

“Why are all of the windows open?” Rhys demanded. “The rain’s going to come in and get all over the--" His nose wrinkled, and he shook his head, resigned. "Never mind.” 

Marcus was sitting at the kitchen table putting together a batch of Invisibility set-spells. Nothing else in the apartment ought to offend ork sensibilities; anyways the floors were freshly mopped. "Is it going to be a while until dinner?" Marcus wanted to know. "What's all that?"

"Just for the salad. Duncan said it would be another couple of hours till he was free, and then he'll want to shower, so it's going to be late."

Marcus hesitated. He indicated the sleeping Arch-Mage on the couch. "Could we maybe go for a quick walk?"

"We can. Get this prepped and put up while I take care of the windows and bring the plants in, and I'll be ready to go."

\---------

After another truck went by, spraying water up in a high arc, Marcus said: "I didn't think about the rain."

Rhys glanced at the sky. "We should probably turn back. I think it's getting worse." He seemed content to let Marcus work out whatever-it-was he wanted to say.

Marcus didn't know what to say, so he kept walking. The air was so warm and humid that the rain streaking his face felt blood-warm. Thunder boomed, and the rain intensified, too heavy to allow them to see. Marcus had to walk with his head down so that the water wouldn't get up his nose. He and Rhys took shelter under a nearby awning, and watched the water come down in silvery sheets.

Marcus slicked back his thankfully-much-shortened forelock, and sneezed. "Sorry," he said.

Rhys graced him with a rueful look from under wet snakes of hair, before he reached to gather it back up into its ponytail, incidentally squeezing a river of water from it. "Welcome to Hong Kong."

"I told Duncan that we got here by mistake but that was a lie," Marcus said. "Really we came here for the weather."

Rhys burst out laughing.

The rain intensified, hammering away against the metal awning and the pavement, until it was nearly impossible to hear anything. 

Rhys took a step forward to speak, and Marcus jolted backwards, stepping right under the worst deluge of water. He gasped, instantly soaked, his boots filling up with water. 

Rhys had already backed off to the opposing corner, to give them both plenty of room. His expression shifted almost too quickly, but Marcus caught his distress. "Sorry, I--" 

A sizzling crack of nearby lightning forced both of them closer to the building. Hail began to spat downwards, pinging off the metal awning and tearing leaves from trees. Car alarms began to blare.

"Wow," said Marcus. "Are we gonna die?" He couldn't even hear himself properly.

Rhys shrugged: who can say. 

They watched the storm die down as quickly as it had blown up. The rain began to slacken. Marcus started to walk out from under the overhang, and another pedestrian bumped into him, forcing him closer to Rhys. Marcus flinched away-- and then found himself apologizing profusely as Rhys gripped his arm and pulled him away from the street, back under shelter.

"Do you understand? I don't expect anything from you." Rhys used his arm to wipe streaks of rain off his own face. "I can survive being disliked. I can see you, constantly trying to monitor your reaction to me. I'm sorry for it, but you don't need to be so concerned I'll take offense. To some extent--" Rhys went to brush off his sodden sleeves next, and Marcus couldn't see his expression. "It's even understandable."

"Okay," said Marcus, because he wasn't sure what to add. Rhys sounded ashamed.

"I don't take care of people just to put strings on them. Can you trust that, at least?" True statement, Marcus reckoned, because it seemed to be an article of faith for the shaman.

"A deal's a deal," said Marcus. "Savos said we'd teach you how to portal, so we will."

"A deal isn't worth Savos' life." 

"That's kind of what I wanted to talk to you about." Marcus looked down the street. "I need to empty out my boots. Do you think there might be a dry chair under that pagoda over there?"

After a few more moments of conversation, Rhys blinked: "Let's be clear. I don't think my little bargain with Savos is worth your life, either. So while in principle I agree-- there's no way we should let him attempt this anchor-rooting ritual--I think we should take every precaution. What do you think about--"

Someone patted Marcus' thigh. Without looking, he opened his arms, and Christophe swarmed on up, Marcus bracing the raccoon's weight against his hip. A ringed tail circled his back, for balance. "Bet you wish you'd picked a little guy," he said, smugly. Christophe's fur was damp and his tail was dripping wet, but Marcus was already soaked, so he didn't care.

Christophe gave an excited yip: it was raining again! Rain!

Rhys groaned, and got down off the table. "I suppose you also like pina coladas," he grumbled.

The raccoon nodded.

"Hey," said Marcus. "What in hell are those?"

\---------

"It's barely six in the evening." Duncan shut the door and toed his shoes off. "Why is everyone already drunk?"

"Because we're about to conduct an--" Rhys took the time to enunciate precisely: "An extraordinarily risky magical ritual." Marcus took another box of shaman-things down off the bookshelf-- trying not to drop it--and agreed: 

"Believe me, no one wants to do this shit sober," Marcus added.

"Do we have any of this remarkable beverage left remaining?" Savos Aren investigated the pitcher and poured the dregs into his glass, mopping up a bit of stray coconut cream as he did so, and licking it off his fingers.

Duncan assessed all three of them and shook his head. "So I guess you want me to cook dinner?" he asked Rhys. "Because I don't think you're in shape for it." 

Marcus thought that was very funny. Here they were, about to root a portal-- and Duncan was concerned that they might injure themselves via rice-cooker.

"That'd be good." Rhys glanced back down at the page with the ritual Savos had outlined. "What's the purpose of the cedarwood, again?" he asked Savos.

\---------

"Wait. I didn't think you were gonna come along for this," Marcus protested.

“My very strong preference is that I be right there to pull you out of the void should matters go awry.” Savos looked to Rhys. “Monitoring him will be much less taxing than making the attempt myself. I should be able to discern when he’s getting himself into trouble.”

“Oh, that's easy." murmured Marcus, lying down and putting his head in Savos' lap. "Getting into trouble is pretty much all the time."

Savos Aren tapped his forefinger against Marcus’ lips: shush. “I am a bit more concerned about your welfare,” he said to Rhys. “Because of how unfamiliar your sort of magicka is to me. And of course I'm not able to form a connection to the spirit beasts, so if they start to experience difficulties--"

“I've got a good handle on that.” Rhys decided to change position, sitting on the floor and resting his back against the couch, within easy reach of both Savos and Marcus.

“Well, let’s get started, then," said the Arch-Mage. "Sadly, I believe the rum is wearing off."

The void was just that; an absence. It was like swimming in water Marcus could not touch or feel. Even though he moved, he felt like he was not getting anywhere at all. Far off in the distant darkness, Marcus thought he might have seen a glimmer-- but perhaps it was no more than the inward doings of his light-deprived eyes. He wandered out too far, and when he felt his connection to the others fading out, he panicked; and when he re-surfaced he blacked out. 

Marcus spent some time sobbing into Christophe’s fur.

"Did you have time to see anything at all?" Savos wanted to know, his hand combing through Marcus' forelock, soothing him.

“A little?” Marcus said. “There is something. It’s faint and far away, like the stars here. I can’t quite see it if I’m looking straight at it.”

“If you can get close to it, it will draw you to itself,” said Savos.

“It looks like it’s a hundred miles away,” said Marcus. “I’m not even certain what it is-- it’s just this smudge.” He reached out for the blanket and covered himself with it. “It almost seems like grey stone to me. Like the stone at the College.”

Savos said: “Is it possible you’re looking at my own destination portal? Because that would make sense; you’ve had some affinity to that…” He paused, thinking. “You could try to establish a connection to it, instead. That might give us more leeway in finding the destination anchor. I wish now I'd taken you out to Falkreath to see it.”

“I’ll try to get closer,” Marcus said. “But I think I’m gonna need more help.” He sipped at the hot broth, trying to warm himself on its steam.

"Hey," said Duncan, taking away the empty mug. "You're breathing too shallow. Fix it. Like you're doing Qigong."

Marcus did so. He felt his face and posture relax. In a few breaths, he was completely centered. He could do this. He settled back down. Savos began to pet his hair, and Christophe climbed up into his lap.

Rhys scooted closer to Marcus and offered a hand. Marcus was not comfortable with that physical contact, but take Rhys' hand he did. Marcus was immediately grateful for the extra support the shaman could provide, because he could see much further now. Something lay far below Marcus in the void. Not something useful like the destination anchor. Whatever-it-was looked exactly like the grey stone of the floor in the Arch-Mage’s Quarters at the College of Winterhold. As Marcus approached, he could even sense its affinity, and even see some of its demarcations. This was Savos’ personal destination site. So… if Marcus could see this, why couldn’t he find the anchor? Puzzled, Marcus went a little further towards the destination site.

Marcus couldn't hope to reach it. He was still somehow connected to his compatriots but their magicka was at its furthest extent. It was tempting, but Marcus knew that if he let go, he would be lost in the void. 

Little claws stabbed into him. Christophe had clambered up onto Marcus’ shoulder. The raccoon bit at his ear and whipped its tail across his face, before scrambling around and trying to get into Marcus’ pants pockets.

Not now, Marcus thought.

But then Marcus noticed something. His own connection with Savos Aren and Rhys and Artri was fading; but Christophe was gamboling about with no care in the world. The transit site still hung below Marcus, tantalizingly out of reach. A mile? Ten? A thousand? Marcus tried to stretch further and gasped; he was worn thin as a cloud, his magicka almost vanished. Rhys' grip was still strong on him; a moment's consultation between the shaman and the bear, and Marcus was tapped to the node again, drawing in magicka and life.

Christophe was nuzzling at his hands; pressing the coin into his palm.

You couldn't do something useful? Marcus wondered.

But no, Christophe wanted to play the cup game again.

A terrible impulse seized Marcus, and he threw the coin, as far as he could. He watched it fall endlessly towards the transit site until it vanished into the blackness. The raccoon spirit beast squeaked and chittered. Before Marcus could stop him, Christophe streaked after after the coin, and was gone. Marcus watched him until he was lost from sight.

Marcus had gone too far away from the others, and little wisps of blue-and-white were forming around himself, making beautifully plumed clouds against the darkness of the void. It was so pretty; what was-- oh. It was Marcus' own magicka, beginning to boil up out of himself. Marcus watched, fascinated, until there was a quick jolting blink. He opened his eyes to his friends' worried faces. Savos had yanked him out, somehow. For several moments, Marcus was too cold to move his limbs or speak.

“I want to try again. I want to look for Christophe. I got him lost in there. I want to find him!” Marcus was sitting up; Savos was still grasping him around the waist and trying restrain him with alarmingly weak limbs. The Dunmer mage was utterly drained. There was no color left in Savos' skin at all. “No, said Marcus, setting his chin. "One more try.” Marcus slapped at Rhys, trying to grab the locus away from him with too-numb hands. Marcus couldn't keep the locus in his shaking grasp. He couldn't feel anything, when he touched it. What had he done?

“Please,” Rhys said. “You’re both incapable right now. Let me try. I promise I won’t take any serious risks or be under too long.” And Rhys was not. When the shaman came back up he was speechless for a long time, and then detailed what Artrí had seen; the endless sighing of the wind through the needles of the giant pine trees.

“I think what the bear saw was our Falkreath anchor site,” whispered Savos. His voice sounded wrong, and his hands were ice. He had been shivering convulsively. Marcus rubbed at the Dunmer's hands to no avail.

With the Arch-Mage incapacitated, Rhys refused to help Marcus go under again. After they saw to Savos-- he was now on a heating pad and wrapped in blankets on the orks' bed-- Marcus made a nuisance of himself, following Rhys around and insisting. He wouldn't settle or sit down, not until Duncan grabbed the back of his neck and Rhys forced something into his mouth. Two swallows convinced Marcus that it was only herbal tea, but in his present state it was enough to cause him to fall into a black and dreamless sleep.

\---------

"It's morning.”

“Nnnngh,” muttered Marcus, groggily: go away.

“We do Qigong in the morning."Duncan was already dressed and ready to get started. He was going to continue to be insistent.

Marcus rolled up to his feet and stumbled towards the bathroom. “Alright… five minutes.”

It was more like twenty, standing there with his face under the pounding of the hot water, but when Marcus finally came out to face Duncan, he was fully awake: "I still feel horrible."

"Feeling horrible means that you very much need to do Qigong. Follow along."

The caress of the aetherial currents was soothing, but not enough replenish his magicka. Marcus' head was still aching from the lack of magicka; and without Christophe, node-tapping was out of the question. He would have to ask Artrí later. The bear spirit was not around, and Rhys had gone out.

Marcus was much clumsier than usual as he ran through the form, staggering out of line a few times, Duncan patiently correcting him. Marcus’ head throbbed, with guilt and regret.

Marcus hunched further over his breakfast of black coffee. Some horrible noise out in the hall was making Marcus' head hurt even worse.

It was disturbing Duncan, too. “Who the fuck is yelling? It isn’t even 10 am!”

When they opened the door, some lady was shrieking at the top of her demented lungs in the elevator lobby; Rats and vermin; thieves; more giant rats, devil worshippers… what?! The lady pointed accusingly at the stairway hall-- shamans! Terrible neighbors!--but when she saw it was Duncan who was coming out of the apartment; her loud voice fell silent. Without making eye contact, she scuttled away to lock herself inside her own residence.

Duncan and Marcus looked at each other.

"Worth getting a gun?" Duncan wondered. 

But when he and Marcus opened the door to the fire stairs, the two of them were faced with nothing worse than a bedraggled little raccoon.

Marcus crouched down and opened his arms but Christophe kept dragging along the big stick he’d picked up someplace, whacking it into the walls a couple of times before Marcus was able to grab it away from him and take it inside. 

It was a familiar-looking staff, with a glowing twisty bit that twined around and about. Shibari’s summoning staff. Huh. But Marcus didn’t have time to waste on thinking about that; his attention was all on poor Christophe. The spirit raccoon could barely hold his little head up. Duncan filled a soup bowl with water and Christophe drank it dry, before falling asleep, all four limbs splayed out on the kitchen floor.

Duncan and Marcus went back to Push Hands. 

After Marcus knocked Shibari's staff over a couple of times, he quit propping it up against the wall and laid it flat on the floor, tucking beneath the couch so that it would be out of the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Raunchyandpaunchy for beta'ing the important parts of this chapter!


	15. The Citadel [Shopping Montage]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once you have passed the trial of the Dweller at the Threshold, you will reach the Citadel; the heart of the magical energy of the metaplane. When you see it, you will know that you have fulfilled the goal of your quest: to receive the knowledge, the insight, and the power that you have sought.
> 
> What then?
> 
> It is time to go home, with all that you have gleaned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talvan and Urag have been borrowed from [FourCat's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCatProductions/pseuds/FourCatProductions) funny and wicked hot [You Are Every Move You Make.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7444042)
> 
> This is a tiny bit AU, as we've still got Savos Aren alive and running around, but I figured they wouldn't mind.

_Duncan didn't know what to expect, so he'd been braced for anything. Coming through the portal was no worse than walking down the aisle of a train still coming to a stop. He swayed a bit and kept his feet, reaching out to grab Rhys' arm to keep him from stumbling. The ground beneath them was soft with pine-needle litter dark-dampened by rain. _

_"Sorry. That transit was something else." Rhys fell silent, looking up and around himself. _

_Duncan went quiet as well. Scent of damp rock and leaf-mold, overwritten by sun-warmed pine; almost a physical force in its intensity._

_There was no sound but the sighing of wind through the endless trees. The sky was only visible here and there as slivers of dark blue through the green. Shafts of sunlight broke through the tree canopy, gilding the rising mist. Duncan's foot endangered a mushroom-ring. He took a careful half-step aside to look around. He and Rhys had ended up in a small clearing, beside a tall outcropping of dark granite that jutted skyward. Near the outcrop, the undergrowth and the pine-needles had been swept aside; and-- "We're in a camp." Duncan pointed to where a firepit had been lined with stones. He could see a few large waxed-hide bundles sheltered below the rock overhang._

_A bird screamed a warning and was scolded by a squirrel. The normal sounds of the forest began to resume. _

_"The mana here is settling down again." Rhys walked to touch the nearest tree. It was so large that he and Duncan together could not have stretched arms around its mossy trunk. "This is a Scotch pine. Are we sure we're not on our own home ground? Because it feels a lot like North America. Somewhere up in the northwoods."_

_"There's a break in the trees over there." Duncan checked a compass. "Call that northeast? I could climb up and try to see where we are. And my best guess is that there's a river downslope that way." The mist was too thick to allow them to see, but the scent of fresh water wafted on the errant breeze. "There's a stone road, about a half-mile uphill towards that ridge, almost directly south of us." Duncan turned in a slow circle to face south. He shoved his fist in his mouth to suppress the cry, his heart pounding rapidly. Below the grandeur of the sky, snow-capped mountains rising tall above the rolling hills, so high up that the peaks were lost in billows of fog. The breeze pouring down from the slopes was sharp and clean, nose-biting despite the warm temperature of the air. Duncan jumped down, his hiking boots digging up ridges in the soft rich earth._

_Rhys had unwrapped the hide bundle and was going through it. "There's a pouch here full of set-spells. A few things meant for hiking through the wild." He held up what looked like a raw-wool cloak. "All meant for us."_

_Duncan came to look over his shoulder. "How can you tell?"_

_Rhys produced a red-and-yellow notebook, its garish colors in stark contrast to everything else around them. "Savos left us a note. And a map." He laughed. "Look, they even left us a folding shovel and a backpack. Remember what Savos said about portalling? That you're not really changing your world; you're changing your mind? Maybe we're still in Kansas."_

_Duncan took Rhys by the arm, coaxing him to turn around and look up. When Rhys did so he gasped and nearly fell to his knees at the sight of the giant red moon, more than half full as it loomed up over the mountains; trailed by the small white moon nipping at its heels._

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Rhys came into the apartment, he went directly to the living room, sniffing and emanating a low growl. Without speaking, he began to scout around, looking in corners and behind plants. 

Marcus was doing dishes. He came out to watch, towel still in hand.

Savos, wholly innocent and sitting on the couch, looked baffled. He got up to put himself out of Rhys' way. Rhys yanked up the cushions and tossed them aside to keep looking.

Now Rhys was looking at Marcus. "I smell it. All the way from the elevator lobby, I could smell it. So where the hell is it?" His nose wrinkled further; his mouth open like a cat grimacing or a Khajiit scenting out enemies. "_What_ is it?"

"Oh, yeah, we put it under the couch for now," said Duncan. "Sorry. Should it have stayed out in the hallway?"

"Leave it alone," Marcus warned, but was interrupted:

"On what metaplane is this thing not viewed as a magical hazard?" Rhys had knelt to look under the couch. When he drew the staff out, he looked over its ugly bumps and ripples; at its twisty glowing thing.

Savos Aren, who was still worrisomely slow to respond, started to say something.

Rhys turned the staff around in his hands. "What is this for? Because this thing is a serious incident waiting to--"

Marcus had gone tense: "Hey! Be careful with that!" he warned and "Oh gods, don't touch that glowy--"

Too late. Rhys had managed to trigger Shibari’s summoning staff.

An eight foot tall many-tentacled Daedra burst into the middle of the living room, its many gaping maws gasping with agony. It shuddered, tendrils writhing with anguish and dripping eldritch fluids onto the living room floor. It shrieked in dismay when it saw Savos, and immediately lunged to engulf him, pressing Savos' head into itself, and wrapping tentacles around him until Savos was fully covered.

Marcus moved without thought.

A suction-cupped appendage whipped out to grab the summoning staff, and then it vanished. Shibari had snatched itself, its summoning staff, and the Arch-Mage clean out of existence.

Rhys' spell cracked through the air, and fizzled harmlessly against the rug. His target was gone.

"_drem_," Marcus vocalized, pitching it low as he could. The windows reverberated as the whole building shook.

"Hold!" Duncan cried at the same time. He was holding himself rigid through sheer effort of will; if he broke, Marcus was dead. 

"Kid," Duncan managed. "Just...just drop it. We're all just going to stand down."

Drop what? Oh. Marcus' knife fell harmlessly away from his nerveless hand-- he had choked up on the blade to abort the attack-- and thumped onto the rug. His left hand let go of Duncan's shirt.

Duncan's white-knuckled hands moved. A snick, and his weapon-- oh, it had been one of those guns-- was disarmed.

Warm breath gusted down the back of Marcus' neck, together with a soft growl. Ohhh, fuck. Well, that could have gone even more badly. Marcus hadn't even noticed Artrí come in. Christophe crept out from under the kitchen table and began to fiddle open the front-door locks. As Marcus watched, the little spirit beast made his escape, leaving the door to the hall standing wide open. 

Marcus couldn't keep his eyes away from it.

_You know when to fucking run. Get out of here, you useless little whore._

Marcus fought the impulse as long as he could, shaking. He closed his eyes to force the sight of it away. Hot wet pattered down onto his knee; onto his legs and bare feet; droplets the size of his closed fist. Blackness narrowed his vision, until Duncan's broad hand forced his head down. 

"Just like that. Stay there."

Marcus' gift-knife went clattering away as Duncan swept it aside with his foot. Duncan picked it up and tossed it someplace away from Marcus' easy reach.

Rhys was still on full alert, muttering a spell-working, his version of scanning the room for further threat.

Duncan came back to Marcus, his hands skimming over Marcus' sides and legs. Marcus didn't have any other weapons. He had trusted the orks. 

"Here." Duncan handed Marcus the kitchen towel. "Squeeze down on that. Give us a few." He looked to Rhys. "You okay for a couple? Need me to check the--" He gestured at the apartment.

Rhys nodded, tautly. "I'm fine. Nothing's in here. Nothing at all." 

Duncan shut himself into the bathroom. The bathroom fan kicked on.

Rhys sub-vocalized to Artri, who began to prowl about the apartment. 

Rhys toed the front door shut but didn't bother locking it. He went to the kitchen to go rip the guts out of the blameless smoke detector again, and came back to the living room to begin a ritual purification of the space, creating resinous clouds of smoke that had Marcus coughing.

Marcus kept a tight grip on his fisted hand, left hand providing what pressure it could. With every cough, Marcus could feel hot blood spurting out of his right hand; and the injury wasn't even hurting yet. That was bad.

When he was done, Rhys knelt; some kind of re-centering ritual, Marcus knew. The smoke in the room made the aetheric currents fully visible; as Rhys meditated, the currents began to move again, restoring themselves to harmony. The smoke itself began to dissipate; as the raw emotion was cleansed from the room.

The tremors shook Marcus' whole body. He wanted so badly to run. He had run before, under worse circumstances. Running was what he did.

He couldn't Shout again; it was too soon, and _drem_ couldn't affect Marcus at all. His own Shouts never did, no matter how much he might want them to. _Peace._

Rhys finished his ritual and slapped the floor to ground out the last of the energy, and got up. Marcus could hear him walk away-- and then start running water to fill up the electric tea-kettle in the kitchen. When Rhys came back, he squatted down in front of Marcus, but not too close.

"Can you look at me?" Rhys's voice was gentle. "At least open your eyes so I can--"

Marcus shook his head abruptly, and diverted his gaze to somewhere over Rhys' shoulder.

_Eyes. Watch the-- What the fuck is wrong with you._

Rhys moved to sit on the floor. "What's going on with you? Can you tell me?"

Marcus moistened his lips. He could not talk, but he could--

_Run._

His arms jerked with the stress of it; if Marcus ran now, he would never stop. He was so tired.

"Tell me," Rhys coaxed.

"They left me here," Marcus said, hoarse with disbelief. He met Rhys' gaze, willing him to understand. "They just--"

Rhys took Marcus' injured hand. The healing magicka began to flow. Dark-shadowed moss; the searing green of clover after rain; the--

\---------

Maybe that's just how it's going to be." Duncan brought his mug of chai up to his mouth, to inhale its vapors. He still looked a bit pale. "You need to make your way on your own." 

Philosophical discussions with Rhys were bad enough; with Duncan they were downright _terrifying_.

Duncan's fingers brushed against the brightly-colored band-aid on his neck, before he realized what he was doing and dropped his hand. It was a small cut, barely more than a scratch, just behind and beneath his ear. Marcus shuddered. Another half-second and it wouldn't be Marcus' blood all over the wall and floor; it would have been Duncan's. Well, it would be Marcus' too; Marcus had no illusions about that. So Marcus couldn't look away from that bandage with its pink-bow'd cats, staring right back at Marcus in blank-eyed reproach.

Rhys--actually able to drink--finished off his cup, settling it down on the ring-mark made by the milk where he'd slopped it a bit. So maybe Rhy's hands were still shaking a bit too. His thumb rubbed at the patterns of the yellow teacup, over and over. "When you can, he means. We haven't kicked you out yet."

Yeah," said Marcus, huskily. He'd been down this road. He knew what would come next.

Duncan made a small noise; the ghost of a smirk: i've been here, kid. He was beginning to move around a little bit more, coming back to his usual self. He seemed surprised to find a cup of chai in his hands, and began to drink it.

Rhys was watching Marcus in patent disbelief. "You can't possibly think that you deserve this." His hair had come down over his shoulders and he looked every bit the shaman come in from the wild.

"I forgot about something," Marcus said, hesitantly. "Something important. It was like my attention just slipped; and I just couldn't--" His right hand spasmed. It had been healed, but still coated with dried blood. Marcus couldn't stand the look of it, so he went back to staring at his chai. The memory of whatever-it-was Marcus was talking about faded.

Duncan cleared his throat: try. Obediently, Marcus drank. The hot liquid went down easier than he thought it would, redolent with spice.

Rhys took Marcus' cup to pour again, and bolstered it with more sugar. He pushed it back towards Marcus. "You said that horrific nightmare creature was your friend."

"Shibari," Marcus agreed. Mournfully: "I thought it was." He took a closer look at the gingerbread. It was humanoid, with details picked out in icing. He squinted. There were tiny little tusks drawn in. Gingerbread orks. Marcus felt disoriented, as though things just weren't quite real. What was so unusual about gingerbread orks? His head was swimming.

"And you've been saying that it wasn't here to attack anyone, but--"

"Nope," said Marcus. "Shibari's always been a pretty good friend all around. I mean I was scared when I first saw it, for sure, but you get over that. I don't know why it grabbed Savos like that. But Shibari was scared." 

"Are you certain that it deliberately left you behind? It could have been inadvertent. Maybe it can only carry so much weight."

Marcus hesitated. "Maybe. But I was standing right there! It could have said something."

"Honestly once I had a clear shot I was going to fucking take it." Duncan took a gingerbread ork and contemplated it. "So it's just as well."

"Sorry," muttered Rhys, who had also been right in Duncan's line of fire. But for that...

"I'm sorry," Marcus said to Duncan again, desperate. "I'm sorry. You would have hit Shibari. You would have hit Savos!"

"Yeah, that would've been unavoidable," Duncan agreed. He took a bite, neatly obliterating the cookie's head and left arm, and licked at the crystallized sugar. "So don't beat yourself up over it." He stuffed the rest of the cookie into his mouth and touched the band-aid. "Jesus, you're fast."

"Told you there was only one thing I was good at," said Marcus, glum. He moved his fingers towards his own cookie ork to show appreciation for the courtesy, but he couldn't eat. He put his hands back into his lap so he wouldn't have to look at them.

"Would you mind telling us a little bit more about this Shibari creature?" Rhys wanted to know. "I've never seen anything quite like that."

"Yeah," said Marcus, slowly "I could do that."

"If you go wash your hands and eat that cookie I will get you dumplings later." Duncan grinned, to acknowledge that this was an outright bribe. "Real dumplings. I don't even care if I have to bring them here on the subway."

When Marcus came back to the table, he had a fresh cup of chai waiting and the rest of the cookies on the plate in front of him. He nibbled. The gingerbread was not too sweet, so he managed a larger bite. From Duncan's face, it was _Duncan_ who very much wanted those dumplings, so Marcus could not disappoint.

"Well, I can't actually say Shibari's real name or even the name of his race, because his people use this kind of sign language and I don't--" Marcus wiggled his fingers. "I'm just not as well-equipped." At a gesture from Duncan, Marcus took a bigger bite, and washed it down with more chai, a double-hit of ginger and pepper. Marcus coughed and said: "Shibari's from a plane maintained by a Daedric Prince who likes to hoard knowledge. Shibari's job was to go out to the worlds and retrieve books for its prince; but when I asked, Shibari says it got sick of all that and kind of struck out on its own. Daedric Princes aren't that much fun to work for. Anyways, most people call Shibari's race "Seekers" and we don't really see too much of them, because most of them hardly ever go anywhere. Basically they're librarians."

"Librarians?" Rhys wanted to know. "So they're not hostile."

Marcus took another cookie. "Nope. Well, maybe. If you fuck around with their books." With his next bite, the ginger-and-pepper ghosted all the way up into Marcus' sinuses, and he stifled a sneeze. "The College's Chief Archivist is way more threatening. Then again--" Another big bite. "Urag's not a Seeker. He's an orc."

\---------

There wasn't much to do over the next few days.

All three of them were sitting around the table eating a late supper when a series of loud thumps came from the kitchen cabinet. 

Marcus shook his head and re-applied himself to his spoon: nothing to do with me this time.

The upper cabinet door popped open and the yellow teacup flung itself out and went rolling on the floor. Marcus got up at once, but--

"Wait. Just follow it." Rhys trailed after it, the other two following him. When the cup trembled to a stop at the verge of the balcony. Rhys grabbed the cup up. "It feels different. Almost like it's heavier."

Marcus still had his bowl of duck-egg congee in hand. He set it down to look. As soon as Marcus touched the yellow teacup, he felt it: it was suddenly more connected. "Hey! Someone rooted a site to our anchor. 

The cup felt alive; quivering with magicka. Rhys took it back, marvelling. "You can actually tell from touching it."

"Who else but Savos would know about the cup and the balcony?" Marcus bounced around, jubilant. "So I guess we wait? They'll have to build the rest of the connections but the death-defying part is, well. It's kinda over with." He jumped. "I think they just got another big part of it done! This has got to be more than one mage." 

"It feels like it's settling back down." Rhys handed the cup back over.

"Maybe they're taking a break," said Marcus, after a couple of moments. The activity was fading. "Do you think we should go out there to the site?"

Rhys hesitated. "Artrí could go take a look, and that would be the safest. He can't be tracked." Rhys listened for a few moments. "Artrí says he's willing-- but it's not really a transit site anymore, is it?"

"Nope! Pretty sure it's a portal now," said Marcus, flooded with happiness. When he slurped down the rest of his nearly-congealed soup, Rhys winced, but visibly decided not to say anything. Marcus made a show of heading back towards the kitchen with the empty bowl. 

\---------

The whistle of the kettle woke Marcus up.

Rhys was just now pouring out the hot water. "Sorry. Didn't catch it in time. Artrí saw Savos and some friends of his coming through the portal about an hour ago, so I was going to wake you in a few minutes. If you want the first shower, go ahead and take it."

Marcus made a couple of ecstatic circuits around the living room first.

When the door buzzer finally sounded Marcus lunged for it.

Savos Aren was saying, somewhat muffled: "What are you doing? I said I wanted to go and get a real breakfast first; not all this pastry..." A slight commotion. "No, thank you, I do not want any of your bubble-waffle. Just throw it away if you don't care for it! Hello? Is this thing working?

In the background, Marcus could hear a younger voice complaining: "Why do they call it a pineapple bun if there's no pineapple at all in it?" Mouth full, the same voice: "Still good, though."

"Give me that. And get the door, why don't you?" barked Urag. "What's wrong with you people? You'd think you never saw a spell-lock before."

Marcus pushed the buzzer to open the street-level door.

"Oh no," said Duncan, looking over their guests and the staff with the twists and turns and the glowy thing. "You're not bringing that thing in here again." 

"We can all stay out in the hallway," said Marcus, coming forward to take Shibari's staff. "Or I bet if I put it up in the laundry room nobody will mess with it for awhile."

"Oh, spirits, no. Get in here, all of you." Rhys got out of the way of the doorway. "Yes, bring that staff. The last thing I want to do is expose the general public to it." 

"Okay," said Marcus. "So this is Master Urag, and he's the College of Winterhold's Chief Archivist. He runs the library. I already told you about him: don't get on his bad side." 

The elderly orc lifted his bushy white eyebrows and nodded at Rhys and Duncan politely, not missing the opportunity to yank venomously at his hated bow-tie. His shirt was looking rumpled.

"Talvan; he's another kind of elf and he's ah--"

"I'm doing a research fellowship," said Talvan, brightly, dusting crumbs from his finger and tucking a bit of crumple waxed paper into his pocket. "And I assist Urag when time permits. If I'm really good and follow the rules, the College won't make me help out as an instructor." He grinned. "Today I'm just here to carry stuff." The tracksuit-clad Bosmer patted his messenger bag, and went back to eagerly cataloging Rhys' little treasures with a practiced eye. Marcus made a mental note: shake Talvan down before the party left.

"Drevis Neloren, he's the Illusion Master at the College and probably the only reason everyone was able to get all the way down here without getting stopped," Marcus said.

"Finally a little credit where it's due," said the stylish Dunmer in the sunglasses and dark-washed denim, nodding acknowledgment. 

After Rhys and Duncan introduced themselves, everyone stood around awkwardly for a moment until Urag and Talvan excused themselves to go photograph the pages of the notebook that Savos had prepared for Rhys.

"It occurred to me that I might want my own copy," Savos Aren apologized. To Marcus: "Do you have all of your things? It would be good of you if you could find your passport and driver's license from when we went to the United States; those are particularly difficult to replace--" After a brief search of the apartment, Duncan turned up these items and Marcus velcro'd them away in a pocket.

"So where are we going next?" Drevis Neloren wanted to know. 

"Home," said Savos.

"Really, Arch-Mage? After everything it took for us to get here?" Drevis smiled as Talvan agreed. "What's the point of risking life and limb portal-building and transiting over here if we don't get a chance to at least look around a bit? Besides, you said you were hungry. So... what's there for us to do?"

Marcus surveyed them: the stoop-shouldered, white-haired orc in the brightly colored broadcloth shirt and chinos; the unassuming Talvas; Drevis in his perfect jeans and slim-cut shirt; and Savos Aren in a lightweight stone-colored tropical suit with shoes and hat to match. He said to Savos: "You didn't learn your lesson last time, about the clothes? Because none of you look like you belong together."

"Stop pulling at your cuffs!" snapped Savos Aren, at Urag. The stoop-shouldered orc froze, looking guilty. Under his breath, Savos said to Marcus: "You have no idea what an ordeal this has been."

"Hey, I know. Let's get everyone onto one of those tourist buses," Duncan suggested. "You'll get a good look around the city, and nobody looks twice at tourists. You have to be pretty fucking weird to not blend in there.

"Er, probably all of us except for Shibari," said Marcus. 

"Would you mind if we could take care of that now?" Savos asked. "Shibari wanted to apologize for alarming everyone." He took the staff from Marcus, and said: "Ready?"

Shibari popped back into view. 

Talvan visibly rolled his eyes when Rhys and Duncan flinched, earning himself a grumble from Urag. Urag went back to fussing with his shirt.

"It's all right," Marcus soothed. "Okay, so that's Shibari saying hello--" 

Though Marcus felt that much was obvious; a wave is a wave. 

"And it's sorry for frightening everyone and for going into uh--" Marcus frowned. 

More gestures from Shibari. 

"Hysterics," Marcus supplemented. "It was very worried about Savos because his magicka was really low. Low enough to do him real injury. So it brought him right back to the College's node so that he could refresh it." To Shibari, Marcus said: "I'm not sure there's any way we can take you along because even if you're invisible some of the mages here can see you. Believe me, that would make a lot of trouble for everyone. So did you want to go back home now, or wait for us here?"

Shibari flailed tendrils around again, as it answered. Rhys ducked out of the way, wincing again. Just then Shibari chose to morph its shape into that of a glorious tropical tree, complete with great blooming white flowers. A musky perfume filled the air.

"Shibari would like to wait here," Marcus said. "If that's all right. It says it'll be happy here sampling the air and chatting with your friends out there on the balcony." 

Politely, the potted tree waited for Rhys to respond. 

Rhys' expression had become rather conflicted, but after asking permission to use his astral sight, he agreed that Shibari could stay.

Shibari trundled itself off to go meet Rhys' plants.

A remarkably deferential Duncan had flicked on the trid for Urag and was going through its educational-program index, line by painstaking line. Marcus was happy to see it; apparently Urag intimidated everybody. Not just Marcus.

"You know what," said Master Urag. "My legs already hurt, and I kind of want to page through this thing. Bring me back some more of those egg puffs." He took the remote.

\---------

"No, no," said Marcus. "I never did get to do a tour or anything. Can we go ride up top?" Without waiting for an answer, Marcus clambered up the steps of the big red bus, drawing Talvan along after him.

"I know it's overwhelming," Marcus said to Talvan. "Stop holding onto me. Believe me, it's gonna be a problem-- they have these things called tasers here, and you don't want to encounter one. And stop touching everything! That window's probably dirty." He looked to Savos for assistance, but the Arch-Mage had settled himself on the other side of Duncan, both of them looking smug. "Stop hanging onto me," Marcus finished, sighing.

Rhys was pointing something out to Drevis Neloren, who was asking more questions. 

"So where are we getting off this thing?" Marcus asked.

"Lan Kwai Fong." Duncan looked around. "Everyone's hungry, yes? All of you will eat soup dumplings, right? Pork?" He rubbed his hands together. "Xiaolongbao for everyone."

Rhys made a face. "Isn't that rather expensive? And I don't think we're all dressed properly--" 

"It's all you can eat brunch!" Duncan protested. "And there's the view from the terrace."

"My treat," said Savos Aren, expansively. When Rhys quibbled with this, Savos opened a screen on his commlink and held it open for Rhys to verify.

"Is this commlink legitimate?" Rhys was suspicious.

"No," said Savos. "But the nuyen are." Looking pleased with himself, he tucked the commlink away. "They'll transfer just fine. No comebacks."

Rhys sighed. "Fine. Old Bailey it is."

\---------

"Well," said Drevis, taking off his sunglasses at last, to take in the triple-height glass walls and the bamboo-screened glass walls overlooking historic buildings. "This is a lovely space. Can we sit outside?"

"What's this?" Marcus said, prodding at the gelatinous substance on his plate.

"Pork terrine," said Rhys. "And what I've got is a lion-head meatball."

"Careful not to burn your mouth on that soup dumpling," Duncan said to Talvan. "It's boiling hot." The fragrant steam rose as Duncan took big bite of his own, exhaling carefully to keep himself from being scalded. "Iberico," he said with satisfaction. "And it's going to numb your tongue with those Sichuan peppercorns, so you might not even feel it. So watch out."

"They have mudcrab on this menu!" said Talvan. "Can we order it? And what does wok-seared mean?"

"I don't think it's the same mudcrab as what we've got back home," said Marcus, and muttered: "I really hope not."

"What is that drink?" Drevis asked.

"That is The Central Criminal Court," said Duncan, sipping at it. "I figured that, one way or the other, I'm going to get to experience it soon. This ways's better." He grinned. "It's down the block. The building's historic, we can go look at it if you want."

"No, no, allow me," said Savos Aren. The server scanned his pad and handed it back with a smile.

"How the hell did you get a commlink?" Duncan wanted to know.

Savos smiled.

Marcus looked again at the exquisite cut of the Arch-Mage's tropical suit, and wondered just how he had managed all of this in just a couple of days.

\---------

Urag agreed to come back out with the rest of them to the Kowloon Night Market, but not without some grumbling. Shibari remained at the apartment, stating that it would see itself home, later. Marcus very much wanted to know what Shibari was talking about with Rhys' plants, but when Marcus went out on the balcony, Shibari and the plants seemed to act like they were waiting for Marcus to leave, so he did.

\---------

"What IS this?" Talvan wanted to know, doubtful.

"Maybe not so much for tourists," said Duncan. "It's an acquired taste."

"Deep-fried pig intestine," said Marcus, getting his own skewer and taking a huge bite of deep-fried, squishy heaven. "Everything here's offal," he said, mouth full.

Talvan blinked and mouthed the word.

"Innards," translated the Arch-Mage. "No vegetables for you to worry about."

"Ah! Home food. What is that you two are eating?"

"Grilled lamb kidney," said Urag, because Savos had his mouth stuffed and could only gesture.

Talvan took a bite of his own skewer, and then crammed the whole thing into his mouth. "I want to try those duck tongues next," he said.

Drevis Neloren had drifted down a little further to get himself a tureen of boat noodles, in which floated dapples of crimson oil and huge glistening chunks of ham. "What is it about the most terrible planes always having the best food," he murmured, with great satisfaction. "Aren't you eating any more than that?" he asked Rhys, who was just polishing off the rest of the sea urchin.

"Me?" Rhys finished licking his fingers. "Once we found a table I was going to get some beer and spicy crab." 

\---------

Once they were all replete, they found themselves walking along slowly, perusing the vendor stalls. Talvan holding up the long pale-jade string of beads he had around his neck to admire its colors. Marcus had ended up with dozens of gold bangles at his wrists; a dark-jade necklet, and many strands of irregular pearls.

One of the clothing vendors had looked askance at Marcus and Talvan-- apparently he knew thieves when he saw them, too-- and declined to let them handle his silk.

Marcus clicked his tongue.

They walked along, ignoring the shrieks and gasps behind them, until a colorful scarf was nosed into Talvan's bag.

Marcus removed a bangle and held it down so that little black hands could reach it. "Nicely done," he said to Christophe. "You want to ride on my shoulder?" 

"Don't bother stealing anything else," said Savos to Talvan. "By no means is it worth the trouble. And there's still a lot of credit left on this thing." He waved the commlink.

"I don't know about you," Marcus said to Talvan, "But I'm kind of done."

The Bosmer nodded back at him, a little glaze-eyed from the bright lights and tumult of the market.

"Also my feet hurt," said Marcus. 

"I'm heading home," Duncan announced, just as they got to the bus station, and stalked off without a backwards glance. A little stunned, Marcus looked to Rhys.

"It's completely in the other direction from where we're going, and--" Rhys looked apologetic. "Duncan doesn't like to draw things out."

The long trip out to the site was as boring a journey as Marcus could contemplate, but at last they ended up in a drab vacant room near the airport.

"Hey," said Marcus, finally reaching to detach small hands. "I gotta go. I guess maybe I'll see you?" The little masked face nodded, glum. "You wouldn't like Skyrim, I don't think," Marcus told Christophe. "Not nearly enough garbage. Not as much to steal, either." Marcus turned to face Rhys. "Not sure what I can do to thank you guys, but ah--thanks. I-- I'd better go." Marcus pressed his way into the middle of the little group, and the College members shuffled around to make room for him.

"Could you please wait approximately half an hour after we transit, before taking this site down?" Savos was saying to Rhys. "I have a little something to bring back through. Do you like elk venison? What about salmon?"

When Marcus stepped through the portal, the hit of magicka was so strong it drove him to his knees, like a gust of clean air after spending all night under a musty wool blanket. It staggered him. Urag and Drevis each inhaled appreciatively. Talvan came through a couple of moments later. The smaller Bosmer looked a bit dazed. "Empty out that bag, if you would," Savos told Talvan. "I'm going to need that back." Marcus helped Talvan wrap up his own belongings in the silk scarf. Talvan, Drevis, and Urag went on their way.

"What are you doing?" Marcus asked Savos, as the Dunmer mage opened a temperature-sealed chest. Frosty clouds billowed outwards.

"Oh, I left instructions for the kitchen staff before attempting the new portal." Savos removed several paper-wrapped parcels, and surveyed them with satisfaction. "Five pounds of elk steak; two sides of the jarl's wife's bacon; a honeycomb; and a couple of those little salmon." Savos overburdened the messenger bag with all of these items and stepped onto the portal. "I'll be right back."

Marcus waited, nervous, but Savos was as good as his word, and portalled back in within a couple of minutes.

"Let's see. I believe the first order of business shall be a nice long bath," Savos said, and stretched his back, putting his hands through his hair with distaste. "I don't know what it is about these highly-mechanized worlds that leave one feeling so grimy."

With every clean breath, Marcus could feel the toxins flooding out of his body. He agreed.

\---------

“You are most welcome to stay on here.” Savos was going through his wardrobe, taking out lightweight robes for them, and slippers. The clothes they'd worn on the orks' plane were now lying in a heap on the floor, to be sequestered from the rest of the laundry and sent down to the service staff with special instructions. When Marcus didn't answer at once, Savos looked up. "If that is what you care to do, of course," he said, more carefully. "I will certainly refrain from mentioning that other matter, since it makes you so uncomfortable."

“I... I think I might,” said Marcus. “I do have to go meet up with my uncle. And then check on some business in Haafingar. Maybe finally get paid for that Ustengrav excavation last fall.” And Marcus probably ought to go find the Dovahkiin, but he wasn’t certain yet how he felt about all that, and it wasn't a conversation he looked forward to. Marcus felt more settled with the Arch-Mage, and he was still trying to fit all the pieces of that together in his mind. “It’s too bad I can’t just hang around the College and look in on some of the classes," Marcus said wistfully. "I feel like I learned a lot, just watching you."

“You can.”

“What? That's crazy. Viarmo wouldn’t even let me in past the entry hall at the Bard’s College,” said Marcus. “And you don't even need to read to be a good bard. But to be a mage? Mirabelle Ervin would throw a fit.”

Savos smiled with great satisfaction. “I can take care of all of that." He paused for the embrace, to run fingers down Marcus' neck and then up again to his chin. "What's the good of being Arch-Mage if you don't get to throw your weight around?" Savos savored the kiss, his mouth drawing at Marcus' lower lip hungrily. "First bath's mine," he said. "I'll try not to take too long." 

Moments after the bathroom door shut, the bedside portal activated again.

Marcus froze. There wasn't even time for him to call out for Savos; Marcus had no weapon-- and then he saw it. A ringed tail! Marcus broke into delighted laughter.

Christophe shimmered into existence. He sat up on his haunches to look around, dark eyes gazing quizzically out of his mask. Then he went back to all fours, nodded at Marcus, and slipped under the Arch-Mage's bed with a flourish of tail. By the time Marcus could bend to look, the raccoon spirit beast had already vanished from sight.

"Better not try to steal anything," Marcus warned. "Because you wouldn't believe the crazy shit that happens around here if you get caught."


End file.
